A figure of despair staring into the nothingness, lost among life suckers. So

Small standing by the ocean sensing the rain, worn out from grieving through

a storm of rage. I have succumbed to sorrow, the hoary darkness and the

all-consuming silence, for I had such hopes and dreams, dreams that fell like

vapors through the summer air. I had such thoughts, thoughts that would crush

mountains and blunt the very daggers to my heart and yet the mere sliver of

hope sent to the corner to be lost among life's pain.... immortal. My bones

are weary; weary from this malignant mortality we hold on to with such grim

despair that it becomes all-consuming. In the glowering sickly green depths

of my misery I've drank deep textures and grotesque ecstasy it's elementary

splendor reminded of the the labyrinthine intricacies of being, the squalor,

the bewildering diversities and its lonely existence. A journey through a

half dream, each step a death. To slip through the cracks unnoticed or pause

and question the meanderings of time. The grey vastness we hold onto, The

glum adhesive that binds us through. No!



Hark! A football, the march of death

A hollow call to arms from the grave

A curator of dead souls brings us down

Is it a shadow of life or just some vision?

Apocalyptic dreams

Hark! A curator of our dead souls



Who is it that walks so solemnly through the graves?

Is it a shadow or just some vision?

Apocalyptic dream

Tracing patterns to bring us down

Who is it that walks?

The March of Death