In the world that we despise, are there times of loss or wonder? Toiling ever, full of lies, sick of writhing, going under. In that bleakness waiting never, 'till no senseless drone became. Wrath or sunder, thrash or sever, breaking through with none to claim. And that weakness sups upon us, gibbers for our souls do slake. With a thirst so vile and vicious, we but shiver in its wake. Thus all reason burns with malice, shackled minds do shriek and wail.
And she who danced upon the darkness,
breaks and thrashes on the floor.
Throwing fits of rage and fury,
torn and sundered to the core.
Blistered through and through with wonder,
blasted from the roles of fate.
Ripped and wretched for a moment,
crushed with woe upon the gate.
No paraiah is more vanquished,
than who buck the will of time.
Seeking but to make a difference,
though ’tis an eternal crime.
A tawny force a’canting,
in a melancholy spire,
does cry and waver, ranting
among blackened souls afire.
The split and crackle churning,
always wrought by leavened hale,
attempts to quench the burning
in a mixed-up, sundry tale.
By sultry fates asunder,
those calamities do gaze
into most guarded plunder,
only whets desire to raze.
Waking chaos few survived,
glimmered through the murky none,
wetly splashed and yet deprived
of kismet forever done.
And there are those that vanish,
beneath the sundered skies.
Who prey upon the witless,
with malice in their eyes.
Sit smoking in the landscape,
a rolling wake of rage.
Tumultuous with a sickness.
beyond mere turn of age.
This rhyming lilt of marching,
doth shake the pebbled earth.
Resplendent in the darkness,
erasing his own birth.
And through that eye of nothing,
a glass burned through with none.
