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.
Dec 14, 2013
Dec 14, 2013 at 11:14 AM UTC
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.