| When sullen storms kiss the cloven horizon
|
| And sunset greets the delirium of stars
|
| From the nightborn maelstrom of whispered secrets
|
| Let stream this dirge, that the four winds hiss
|
| Embalm the delights that grievously squirm
|
| Confined in soulless tidal throes
|
| Rebellion-buried within vaults internal
|
| The entrance to the sway of worms dost unfold
|
| Appeased and withered, passions bleed deep
|
| No longer to tarnish soporific constellations
|
| Wrinkled is the skin
|
| What even grief hath forsaken
|
| With memories shattered
|
| Like fragile monuments
|
| Crown their closure
|
| At the throne of untold sorrow
|
| As the curtain finally falls
|
| In the theatre of perfect deception
|
| Like a bleak romance of dying seraphs
|
| So cold are these remnants forlorn
|
| (sculptured by oblivion and the stench of decay)
|
| Whilst black mists enfold the frozen panorama
|
| Adorned with the sapphirean tears of denial
|
| Let stream the dirge that the four winds hiss
|
| Aeons of anguish would hurt less than this
|
| For time is such a poisonous remedy
|
| Transfigured promise that reveals the vista
|
| Towards the garden of ivory stones
|
| Where my image is etched
|
| Like a xylograph 'midst the thorns |