A figure of despair staring into the nothingness, lost among life suckers.
So small standing by the ocean sensing the rain, worn out from 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 through 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 of fire.
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.
Grotesque ecstasy, elementary splendour reminded of labyrinthine intricacies.
The squalor, the bewildering diversities, the squalor, the lonely existence.
A journey through a half dream, each step a death.
To slip right 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 footfall, 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?
Apocalyptic dreams.
Hark! A curator of our dead souls.
Who is it that walks so solemnly right through the graves?
Is it a shadow or just some vision?
Apocalyptic dream.
Tracing patterns to bring us down.
Who is it that walks?
The March of Death.