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.
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