How am I scared of a memory,
echoing through rusty pipes,
with other echoes, lost in time,
deep in the *****, deep in my mind,
leaving fresh scars in the metal on each pass
through dented coils in a spiral
closing in upon my heart?

This echo doesn't fade,
it climbs.

Now swarming buzzes fly on high,
one thousand wings as black as night,
until that dark, chaotic sound
spills forth into the quiet chapel of my future.

Thunder clouds
and heavy air,
draw blackout blinds on stained glass,
as they pass,
as they pass.
Will they pass?
 
Which phantom fingers play these keys,
as I kneel at the fragile alter of existence?
How am I scared
of a memory?

Thunder shakes the very foundations,
A primal pagan invader,
Shivering my bones as I tremble and cover my head.
Lightening illuminates the wings of dread.

I pray that thunder wakes me;
wakes the one who plays the keys,
I pray that I scream,
I pray that I scream
I pray the pain will break this dream.



So then through pain and tears comes rain;
the *****'s pipes begin to spray.
Streaming rivulets wash down black stone,
through cracked tiles,
pulling dark clouds
to the depths of the ground.



And now, a harmony of mist
hangs colours in the air
light tumbles lazily,
soaring to vaulted ceilings,
brushing my hand,
blessing cracked tiles with ****** grass.

Petals serenade
silent beams of sun,
as they come,
as they come.
They will come.