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He crouches on the floor, there's a mask on the wall. |
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And he leafs, through the pages of a book. |
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But wait as he may in the shadow of other leaves. |
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His heart, in embraces to times long since scorched. |
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The horizont folds over, with a purpose sun rise. |
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And the wind, carry smoke, from a earth that is burning. |
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The smoke clogs in his hair, and he's covered with patterns. |
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And a decent, of life trees, on his camouflaged soul. |
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With a winter of memories, carved ponder bone white. |
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Beyond his sculls for, a scorpion lies. |
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In the crunch of the snow, as his darkness increases. |
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A twilight of ice, encircles his teeth. |
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This is a song for Douglas, after he's dead. |
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This is a song for Douglas, his mercury dances. |
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There's a swastika carved, in the palm of his hand. |
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There's a crooked cross, that is caught in his eyes. |
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There waits a falling sun, in his mind. |
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There's the honor, of violence, on his lips. |
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His father waits for him, at the towers of silence. |
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Where they worship the fires, so long ago cringed. |
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But the two will oh trees, with el has inverted. |
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The fork of life snapped. |
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They are father and son. |
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So mingling dust, as if life itself, had been mostly illusion. |
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But parchly real. |
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And parchly pain. |
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And over some wall, if you look through rebels. |
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Amongst ruins of churches, where life conquers death. |
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Thou empires can not last, where blood and concepts. |
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The folted and failed. |
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A cloud still sow his teeth. |
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As the world disappears. |
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This is a song for Douglas, after he's dead. |
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This is a song for my Douglas, his mercury dances. |
