Dust and desolation, it all sets in,
for a savage once, it is beauty akin,
to settled bones and tired skin,
and the fiddler puts his bow to rest,
perched atop the infinite crest,
amused and musing about his rest,
the buried branch that sprouts a flower,
whilst man and machine tend to cower,
stargazing at the boundless tower,
She plucks the seams of her feathery blanket,
her beautiful curves, her golden anklet,
and empty apathy, a flightless carpet,
rue and rancidity, it all sets in,
for a savage null, it is beauty akin,
to empty bottles with broken rims.
The heavy air of uncertainty;
Hinders every breath;
And an indistinguishable smell of rancidity;
Strangles and chokes out the existence of all well being.
And in desperation you look around for someone to help;
But there’s no one that your eyes can see;
So you search your mind for a name;
But once again none can be found.
And with sickle in hand and direction fixed;
The Reaper (so grim) illuminates his presence;
By the unavoidable air of fear;
That’s coming from your eyes.
So you lift up your hands to the sky;
To ask the powers that be to tell you this isn’t real;
But as always the demons living inside you;
Insists it always has been and always will be.
And your fears; they grew much stronger
While to that pit you fall
And your hopes; they never prospered;
And you never broke those walls.
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