Beneath my wrist there are violin strings
But their music feels lost in the past...

Laid here is so strange
A place without a door...

It's
Covered in soap...

A palace built from the skin of dying angels
Red feathers falling down...

"Who are you" speaks the king
"I am death and but a small little thing...

Mourning the death of spiders
In a mausoleum made of maggots...

A poisoned fog they prayed for
Comes rolling from the lake...

A black screen fades to light
And draws the text to the eye...

Sitting in the road
Watching the clouds coming in...

Fade and shade are new constants
Constant change that connects continents...

From up here they could all be forgiven
Separated as I am from their spite...

What if it was bloodstained hands that created...
A stained glass image illuminated by a malformed...