When Death Dies

Amber of golden flakes wither to a crisp And green vines slither up the tree's limb. Hills flourish up around like a wind's cold wisp That leaves nothing more than this Grim. Wrenched cries have eternalized Its great wrath to say the very least. How must this loving soul be fertilised? For faults subsided have been released. Vast gray savannas gloom the soul's tongue. Rolling fogs cross lands, fearing nothing to bloom. A deep abyss that cleanses your minds of gloom, Fork the everglades to trench the spirit unrung.