Lost  Peacocks  -  Virus

The  wounds  are  leaking  equivocal  fluids

Flowing  through  a  pale  existence

The  atmosphere  that  holds  the  heart

Is  the  black  dam  that  subdues  the  tongue

A  downward  slope...  A  downward  slope  to  the  archives

Within  lies  the  story  of  our  decay

Ripe  and  complete,  so  address  it  now

The  speechless  mouth,  the  withered  tongue

The  crests  on  the  path..  The  crests  on  the  path  to  the  archives

The  scented  words,  sent  across  the  distance

They  pare  the  walls

Coating  the  perfume  in  between  the  bricks

There  was  no  gold..  no  gold  in  the  rivers

The  cold  vault

The  sparkling  red  sun  is  trapped

In  the  quiet  room,

the  sound  of  the  nervous  moons'  pulse

The  walls  cave  in

You  coil  yourself  around  the  earth

A  downward  slope..  A  downward  slope  to  the  archives

-End-