Notice the questions, riling around their heads.
Fickle and pretentious, vile, degenerate.
Prayer to those, eclipsed by a glance.
Viewed in hate, murdered, entranced.
Active in circles, numbered by all.
Losing sight, floundering amid petered youth.
An oddessy, in search of shallow waters.
Vexed by the light, one truly wonders,
What hides in the night, waiting to rumble,
To snatch and to grab; an unholy ghost.
To lay in the Land of a Thousand Corpses.
Lingering, lurking, turning to insipid dust.
The ground walked by a thousand feet.
Pounded, moved, worn – utter neglect.
In the flurry, and the scuttle, means made to bustle,
Men are hidden, unconsciously tortured.
In the worming of their minds,
And the terror residing in their souls,
Not one wishes to venture further amongst the Dunes of Death.
In their resting they find brief respite,
Wondering if their salvation might come to pass.
Tired, blistered, sanded on the inside.
While the Taker of Life encircles, always watching.
It knows, when the time is right,
It must take them, cradled within its spindle arms.
For this is no place for them to walk.
Paths chosen, but paths made untrue.
And so, the Taker of Lifes’ job must ensue.