In the empirical,
The mind has no ease,
For the justifications of a seeker.
Who writes her name on the wall clouds,
Wrought of heaven,
And cursing Sheol.
A dream was promised long ago,
In a land of no language
And no wordage for the legend.
She is left there,
A nanosecond to ponder,
The humanise of mortality.
We all seek death here,
In the prise waste,
Where butterflies shrivel in flight,
And bird of prey scream carnage compositions;
Night reviles as a curtail,
Where the greedy deem the fortunes of this world.
Gone astray are the meek who suffer slight,
And truth is the martyr of their blood shed.
She may beckon me not remember,
The funereal of a liars heart,
And we can only look away with a Sumerian stare.
No one is blind,
They are not deaf,
The children are of no more the mute,
Then these words fractured and thinned,
On paper who has written the names,
Fraught of a firmament,
and cursing Sheol.