And at Dawn's kaleidoscopic night,
to arc ones eyes, to the dying light,
perched on this rock,
leering over the faceless might.
To name that fear, as far as he'll try,
is to hope for folly, for one must die,
or to cackle in the face of the sane,
as the mind is lost in it's hurricane.
From this shed on the edge of madness,
a single feather falls,
on the fleeting falter of a seabirds wing,
the man sees his death.
The man sees nothing grotesque,
no churning sea to swallow the world,
He stares at life through broken glass,
counting seconds as years pass,
in it's flames that crest the soul.
A broken heart, one to fix it, one to burn it once more.
Our nature's flaw, and endless loop,
scraping the walls with it's gaping maw.
And in Dusk's final fight,
He's grown to love, his locked and rotting door.