possession.
where starves the eyes of militant unease.
of what is left
each grave the same as thirty years before.
a lovers walk of narrow-minded phrase
turns brighter now our waters mock and spill.
enough of all now fades who choose to sing
of brothers lost somewhere inside a calm
to pay; pay dear for sanctuary and shade
where grows our midnight hour ever still.
too far gone our civilized approach
our aged wounds now deeper than our son of Capricorn
on savage tides through seas of discontent.
what words are ours that compliment this rage?
from where the darkness comes
from far beyond our castles wall of blood
the red orb from the sun of madness hangs
from loyalty of change
where centuries of silent solitude
dared walk with devils harp each ending day,
to what is left?
each grave the same as thirty years before.
who dares to write of things as such?
gelatine with temper jousting still!
no man will win feint heart
with gold that holds it\'s scant allure.
where gone our world?
not once it ever luminous.
not once it ever pure;