Death's Scent

Rust, in the swinging blades Singing of your fury, everlasting Like the stubborn breeze Piercing through the rocky hills Whose efforts never cease To perish in oddly pleasant chills Remnants of which stay crippled In the whistling motion of the edges Sharp, obstinate and not at ease. I stand steady chained to your scent Growing heavily on me, like a shadow Set lose in motion with gruesome intent And slowly I'm lifted from my self Soaring high in the mirage of vanity Vain, is my flight, induced by stained Feathers of your spell, pain has eluded My misery, and now I hold on To the rising fumes of your fragrance sweet, Where shall you take me now Witches painted in the light of angels, Spells rhyming at the corridors Of my sanity, where voices start To echo and perish mildly. Rust, in the swinging blades, Approaching me with fury, And I soar in your scent,  High above their reach.