XisForEyes - The Crow Road

Sirens awake to the sound of a rural cry,
whilst our
children turn in theirn unfilled graves, the framework of
sculptures.
And of rotting hearts, they gather round and
come what may, sleep under their forked tongued shepheard.

In it's hurricane, grievous angels float above.
Yet
ignore the mercy, we drink tonight in aid of envy's liquor,
whilst your mothers die of a broken heart.
The clocks
turn to reep what he sewed, and grace the wildlife.
The
thorn bush is hungry and the deer is taunting.

The
rabbit hole is deep at last.

The lake where we have
dove, is shallow and dry, and our masters line up to
resolve their sins.

The framework of sculptures and of
rotted hearts. Left to wander the barren
wastelands.

With broken ideals, the smoke
arising.

And the hypocrites kneel, palms to their face
they cannot see their own impurities.

And the chapel is worn,
the mark of their cult is wrapped around the shawl of virgins.
Memories of a once great new age are now
forgotten.

We are not forgiven, we will not heal.