I was on the everglade of pain where the
Grass did release the winds fever upon all
That fell unto the field of draughts sickness.

They bled their moments on each stem,
Thriving on the ecstasy of what descended
On ever inch of immaculate feverish hunger.

Each whipped on every nerve that bleed, and
Covered each morsel of life's disturbance.
All their wishes for a life saved on whim.

But flesh is for the tournament of every
Sin, and with every one that bleeds, another
Moment that fed him that dwells far below.

But in the field of those that sway in perpetual
Agony they release penance on those that grace
The calm exterior till they bleed and fall below.