By The Drifter from Heaven
The iron hinges groan with ancient rust,
I step through shadows of my ghastly past,
A thick shroud of mist has emerged,
A dark hymn of despair doth my heart submerge.
A tainted face of illusion—a ghostly apparition,
A fading whisper of perdition, my soul's damnation,
Memories of my heart's crucifixion—that shattered my bones,
A plea from my soul to bury this abomination—beneath a heavy stone.
As I traverse this ancient misty shrouded hall—a gentle call of grace,
A whisper of light where my weary soul finds a holy embrace.
Mar 29
Mar 29, 2026 at 7:04 AM UTC
By The Drifter from Heaven
The iron hinges groan with ancient rust,
I step through shadows of my ghastly past,
A thick shroud of mist has emerged,
A dark hymn of despair doth my heart submerge.
A tainted face of illusion—a ghostly apparition,
A fading whisper of perdition, my soul's damnation,
Memories of my heart's crucifixion—that shattered my bones,
A plea from my soul to bury this abomination—beneath a heavy stone.
As I traverse this ancient misty shrouded hall—a gentle call of grace,
A whisper of light where my weary soul finds a holy embrace.