The poor children of this earth,

Who live. To die.

To be born with trembling breaths

and delicate limbs;

Weary eyes, and a head drowning in stories.

For life is but ashes for the eternally dying

Who envy the timeless night and wind,

Gouging our eyes out to see in the glaring light,

praying for the sweet relief that the shadows will bring

At the end.

For the ending is not, merely an unfinished page.

Lost in the warped letters and

tangled ink words of

an ebony note.

Thus if you despise the ringing wind,

then you must seek another world

for it to become and go.

For when the dead walk,

Living must occupy their graves.

Seven. Silent. City. Sirens.

And the lights turn phantom as

the earth drifts further and further away from the sun.

The sun a moon, a blood red moon.