The Spasm

  There in the tomb drops the faint moonlight,
But wind comes up from the shore:
They shake when the winds roar,
Old bones upon the mountain shake.

The wind is hushed
in gentle whispers,
spasms of the damned
the wicked and the dead
Across the universe
beyond the sky,
We swallow seives and sand
and burn the Books,
listening to the twisted cry
Beyond salvation, where
only resurrection is entwined
with the silver and gold
embued into the soul
there is the black
The cold black Tower
risen from the slavery
and the arrogance

Silenced by the
gasping wind,
and blown away like dust
To Dust is their names
risen from the tomb
of death
and the watery grave

The wind chants whispers
2+2=5
The dead crawl
in defiled rot,
across the ozone layer,
bleaching memories
and intoxicating dreams

Black souls, caked
in oil and tar
are swallowed by the darkness
and the heaving universe
There is the spasm
in the Kingdom of the Spring Beauty
the Valley of the Hyacinth

As smoke rings rise
into the air
the world trembles
and the shadows crawl,
the black tower falls

Here we cast grains of sand
across the universe
and spread the ash

spread the ash

To till the loam
where the dead
hide their bones

and their deathly memories
in the wasteland, the stark wasteland
before and after
the death

The wind goes silent
and the world is bare
asleep from the lullaby
to end all that
existed before
the spasm