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The Awaken, Even in Death
The clouds grasp the brink of the wind
For its fingers know not of tarnish,
Only the touch of the cerulean skies.
But now it is night time.
And the wind welds nothing more,
Than the desires of phantoms alike.
A twitch of the hand.
The wind seldom sees the woe of the man.
And the moon dressed in baroque elements
accompanies the epitaphs.
But the memories awaken only at night.
The graveyard always beckons he who
wishes to be haunted.
And so I daresay, in sinful confession,
I sought all that has been lost.
So I listen to the grotesque
imploring,
softly insisting,
still begging in the whistling wind.
And the memories awaken only at night.
And the memories awaken only at night.
© Netra.
For its fingers know not of tarnish,
Only the touch of the cerulean skies.
But now it is night time.
And the wind welds nothing more,
Than the desires of phantoms alike.
A twitch of the hand.
The wind seldom sees the woe of the man.
And the moon dressed in baroque elements
accompanies the epitaphs.
But the memories awaken only at night.
The graveyard always beckons he who
wishes to be haunted.
And so I daresay, in sinful confession,
I sought all that has been lost.
So I listen to the grotesque
imploring,
softly insisting,
still begging in the whistling wind.
And the memories awaken only at night.
And the memories awaken only at night.
© Netra.
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