He crouches on the floor, there's a mask on the wall

And he leafs, through the pages of a book

But wait as he may in the shadow of other leaves

His heart, in embraces to times long since scorched



The horizont folds over, with a purpose sun rise

And the wind, carry smoke, from a earth that is burning

The smoke clogs in his hair, and he's covered with patterns

And a decent, of life trees, on his camouflaged soul

With a winter of memories, carved ponder bone white

Beyond his sculls for, a scorpion lies

In the crunch of the snow, as his darkness increases

A twilight of ice, encircles his teeth



This is a song for Douglas, after he's dead

This is a song for Douglas, his mercury dances



There's a swastika carved, in the palm of his hand

There's a crooked cross, that is caught in his mind

There waits a falling sun, in his eyes

There's the honor, of violence, on his lips

His father waits for him, in the towers of silence

Where they worship the fires, so long ago cringed

But the two willow trees, with el has inverted

The fork of life snapped

They are father and son

So mingling dust, as if life itself, had been mostly illusion

But parchly real

And parchly pain



And over some wall, if you look through rebels

Amongst ruins of churches, where life conquers death

Thou empires can not last, where blood and concepts

The folted and failed

A cloud still sow his teeth

As the world disappears



This is a song for Douglas, after he's dead

This is a song for my Douglas, his mercury dances