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Like a bliss of malaise this tainted air compels me |
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The unwrit hours pass again unheeded |
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Stillness, like a cold vengeance, no life shifts... |
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Grey ghost painted to the halls of ennui |
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Falling dust weaves bleary torpid scenes through a bleak day |
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In this drifting miasma sore eyes staring through the weary schemes of death |
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Strain of a stranger will bound me from within |
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Grip devoid of strength and the weight of dying stone |
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Forlorn, torn wisps of malady seethe... and entrance me |
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This picturesque scene fragile or so it seems, still unchanging beyond endurance. |
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Vagrant shadows tire of motion and abandon the empty halls harvesting the decay of the centuries past |
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Arcana of darkest kind this bleary sentiment unceasing like lying awake without will dreaming without dawn. |
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And the strength slowly drains, lay still and cease in the strenuous grasp of sloth |
