Night Melody of the Pull.

Stumbling forlorn on the scopic path.

I stagger among fallen Gods
in desolate barren lands.
Seething ammonia winds
imprint corneas visions
of immolated fire head virgins
and fiercing slaves,
collecting thistles and thorns
for their crowns.

The vices of my past
have shaded my bright skies black.
Burning eyes bend down upon me
as I labor in dead pastures
among felons and traitors.

Wild scattered eyes
pierce at my flesh.
Senses of enigma
bite at my trembling mind.
No angel in the sky
can bear the sight.

The keeper at the gate
once warned me of
this phantom ache.
This free falling cascade
of impending doom,
should I choose to be misled.

Oh, how I should have listened.