Fields of the dead smoulder underneath us,
Below the wasteland littered in coalwood.
Spectre tongues dripping in contempt and pus,
Corrupted hearts ravish you if they could.
Pass on their knives for fresh skin to defile,
Toast with empty cups for illness and doom.
Crows pick at their bones, with dubious guile
Under a sunless set, shadows consume.
Puppet-show play to prove they existed,
Loud mouth ventriloquist howling end times,
Meaning stripped, fondness lost to memory.
A kind, lost to terror and the twisted,
Dead hands cling to ankles, oft reap their crimes,
Take you down into blackened reverie.