On a Wicked Night

On a wicked night In solemn silence finds its beckoning call No shoulder to cry as in its deafening blow; On a wicked night proned to fright Within darkened portals released in edged fragments Having silenced to usurp its beckoning call, The devil that deceived them was cast in; Within its barrage filled torment with skull etched in glass fatal pass. A cue of self absorbed inner proned scorn, To ever curse the given day they were actually born... On a wild wicked night proned to fright No shoulder to cry evaded after the fall A peril of self obsobed ritualistic clamour With a port in storm one could varily see, The abstract thought in a destination proned from reality. Soaring within destination parts unknown with its flow On some sullen wicked night to help inflate the common ego In vain torn sickness to help light the spark, In decadane charade to help fight for aid On one wicked night proned to fight, Through faint scenes within a heart that's pure