The music stops, but the echoes crawl,
Like spiders up the velvet wall.
The waltz is done, the dancers still,
Possessed by a cold and quiet thrill.
The "Styxx" is rising, the banks o’erflow,
Where dead red roses refuse to grow.
The marrow’s picked, the feast is spent,
A hollow shell for a love misspent.
We count the pulse of a phantom limb,
As the jaundiced lights grow low and dim.
You promised forever, a soul-bound tie,
But forever is long when you’ve learned how to die.
So stitch the lace to the open wound,
To the rhythm of a lover’s sound.
For in this kingdom of rot and rime,
We’ve murdered the clock and buried time.
No sunrise comes to break the spell,
Where the tolling heart is a funeral bell.
Drink deep the dark, let the shadows bloom,
There’s always room in a double tomb. ☠️
Michael Powers
"STYXX ON FIRE "