Thy eyes are blind but I can see,
the snowflakes glistening on the trees.
Oaken whispers cradle my sight,
bathed in shades of silver and white,
morning bades the Queen of spades.
And I drift upon the tides of snow,
rivers run red, tears dripping from my blades,
here is my tomb of ice and snow, structured ages ago.
Thy ears are deaf but how I hear,
the wolf whimperings of death and fear.
Sunlight prisms burn my hearing,
the sounds of fires and grave pyres shearing,
high noon mourns the emeralds of scorn.
And I roam upon the tundra sea,
waves thrashing in pain, memories left accrue and unborn,
pray, wish, beg, that Christ sets me free.
Thy lips are cold but how I taste,
the wisps breezing through my tongue in haste.
Winds grasp coldly upon my mouth and throat,
the dense choking as I try to spill my final quote,
evening draws breath for unfortune and death.
And I wander within the night blue trees,
dark dream curses for eternity, step by step with Seth,
my sword in stone, like Excalibur in negative degrees.
This is the ice cast slumber,
written in time, there is no fact or number,
only that I sleep, soul at peace,
in the white Spirit Plane,
the memories now only dreams, the pain that will never cease,
disruption cast within my domain,
To which I sing a Royal lullaby, sent by angels to drive me insane.
