The rancid feel of heaven's weeping breaks

a temple’s solemn peace, the red moon sha-

ring its crimson glow with such heavy tears. The ru-

ins drink in the pain, forever trapped in a clock.

The tarnished ruins slumber noisily

amidst the seams of time, a stranded bell

reverberating along the decaying walls.

A ring so morose should never knell at six.

A dagger whetted in bloody brimstone stands

in vigil light, the reddened eye of the hilt

forever glaring down the open mau-

soleum. Their searing cries drown out the knell.

A whimpered plea resounds within the hal-

low upheaval, a hellish screech escaping

as a mere colt departs the falling haven. The fu-

ture carries in its hand a wrinkled head.