A figure of despair staring into the nothingness, lost among life suckers. So
Small standing by the ocean sensing the rain, worn out from grieving through
a storm of rage. I have succumbed to sorrow, the hoary darkness and the
all-consuming silence, for I had such hopes and dreams, dreams that fell like
vapours throug the summer air. I had such thoughts, thoughts that would crush
mountains and blunt the very daggers to my heart and yet the mere sliver of
hope sent to the corner to be lost among life's pain.... immortal. My bones
are weary; weary from this malignant mortality we hold on to with such grim
despair that it becomes all-consuming. In the glowering sickly green depths
of my misery I've drank deep textures and grotesque ecstacy it's elementary
splendour reminded of the the labyrinthine intricacies of being, the squalor,
the bewildering diversities and its lonely existence. A journey through a
half dream, each step a death. To slip through the cracks unnoticed or pause
and question the meanderings of time. The grey vastness we hold onto, The
glum adhesive that binds us through. No!
Hark! A football, the march of death
A hollow call to arms from the grave
A curator of dead souls brings us down
Is it a shadow of life or just some vision?
Hark! A curator of our dead souls
Who is it that walks so solemnly through the graves?
Is it a shadow or just some vision?
Tracing patterns to bring us down
Who is it that walks?
The March of Death