A Cold Crimson Mist
In a mystical graveyard fog
primordial swamp lands cry
the Moon devours icy stars
clouded pastel hues arrive
traversing into the universe
vagabonds of a dark night
we desire tomorrow's pain
upon a visceral dream state
a comets tail stings the soul
be monarch or revolutionary
anarchist or fallen sovereign
inhaling a cold crimson mist.
Whispers in a turquoise haze
hatred fears the homestead
floating on a prism in rhyme.
Piety carries a cross of fury,
as I wake with a sudden jolt.
A lost misty queried fantasy,
cold lifeless strangled soul,
a hard grasp in the marrow.
Seethe deep underground,
with crispy labored breaths
buried alive it now seems,
into a vessel of lonely death.
Life shall bequeath a venom,
heartless emasculated decree.
Within the cold crimson mist,
Satan calls to me from below,
for yes, I was hated in my day
but now everybody loves me.
Full Moon Over Oakland Cemetary
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