I sit on the seat of a silent hill, watching hope stripped bare Like tender flesh ripped from the bone. Where do I go from here? The words in this world, are poisoned with pain. Even the ink on this wrinkled page decays, like Receding waterways that turn rivers Into mass graves. Every frontier turns to a last bastion. No decadence can dress the dead. Sunken souls Weighed down by boots of lead. Work and worship. Open plains become a purgatory for the horseless.