De Arma Fires Of Hope
In the twilight of the now
I can still smell yesterday
The steady grind of the rusted clockhands
Sends terror through me
Nausea plays it's sorry tune again
Piece by piece, I'm collapsing
This shadow flesh, so familiar
Curling in upon itself
The ashes of the present
Stain the tapestry of what once was
This body, this essence
Winding down to nothing
Sweet yet sickly the tang of decay
Sights and sounds dulled
With no desire to see nor hear
Winter draws so close
Cold fingers brush dead wood
And the coarse, unyielding cloth
The fires of hope burned here once