Hands of stone grasp the sword of God.
Crying out in pain and fear,
The clouds growing dark and silent.
Dancing furies of golden-red leaves,
Attack the midnight air.
All was well but now is not,
screaming sorrow and sockets very hollow,
bleeding eyes lay in puddles across the floor.
Running up the staircase of Hell,
What was I doing?
I wake.
Beads of sweat run down my brow,
my room so dark and lonely.
Voices in my head tell me all was a dream.
Yet a secluded voice convinces me to believe otherwise.
