A layer of mud, caked over a hollow can. Rusted tin, a broken man. Kicked on down the crooked road, past the hollow shells that some called homes. Down the peeling yellow lines, past the wind torn soldier pines. White ash replicas of organic times. Broken bones and unanswered crimes. Blood spilled red is caked on brown. A hollow circlet, a corpse's crown. Syanarra and sweet good byes. Black veiled eyes gazing out like dots on dies. Eerie portals, the Devil's spies. Open mouths, silent still but speaking lies