Hideously Serene.
Hideously Serene.
Mind the Poe’s valley of unrest!
When I am to tenant my own.
My place, always shadowed by Death…
Weeping willows and cold nights for me to enjoy alone.
Macabre whispers, a deafening, scarring melody… Loneliness as a pest,
Its thievery leaves me lost for words and out of breath.
In my home, haunted by ill angels only,
Frozen behind the behemothic walls of sorrow,
Lies Time, it rests still, vast…
The Moon guards its throne on the lurid waters of the morrow.
The Sun… Oh the Sun! The darkness trembles, lonely.
Up my limbs gleam the melancholy waters of the past.
Mind the Poe’s valley of unrest and the pallid city under the sea!
Where the waters lie hideously serene and mute.
Put to sleep by whispers and awaken by screams, I inhabit a world of a moan,
Where night reigns in all its grieving glee
And lies taunt my tongue to bleed… Speak no truth.
When the leather grazes the white skin – not even a groan.
Mind the wanton melodies of the wind and the youth’s imploding bloom.
In my world of time-eaten torrents, iron bells toll the sound
Of a thousand solemn thoughts and cries… They word the fall,
The feathery murmur and white smashed bones on the black, solid ground.
The wind rests silent, mute, the waters still and glass-like, silent, enjoying the gloom
Of the final fall… When the silken sheets lull me into last sleep like a funeral pall.
The Moon’s lurid haze admires the morbid sight
And all the unrest hovers serenely over the decayed ruins
Of the tormented domes and fresh graves.
The air. Steady, stale, seeping through the wreckage stripped of all its fluids.
The mist weeps, the clouds depart – Death brings the light.
The craving ones never get what their soul craves.
Decomposing mirth fills the frozen night, solemn but crude
As the waters still lay hideously serene and mute.
Serene and mute.
Mind the Poe’s valley of unrest!
When I am to tenant my own.
My place, always shadowed by Death…
Weeping willows and cold nights for me to enjoy alone.
Macabre whispers, a deafening, scarring melody… Loneliness as a pest,
Its thievery leaves me lost for words and out of breath.
In my home, haunted by ill angels only,
Frozen behind the behemothic walls of sorrow,
Lies Time, it rests still, vast…
The Moon guards its throne on the lurid waters of the morrow.
The Sun… Oh the Sun! The darkness trembles, lonely.
Up my limbs gleam the melancholy waters of the past.
Mind the Poe’s valley of unrest and the pallid city under the sea!
Where the waters lie hideously serene and mute.
Put to sleep by whispers and awaken by screams, I inhabit a world of a moan,
Where night reigns in all its grieving glee
And lies taunt my tongue to bleed… Speak no truth.
When the leather grazes the white skin – not even a groan.
Mind the wanton melodies of the wind and the youth’s imploding bloom.
In my world of time-eaten torrents, iron bells toll the sound
Of a thousand solemn thoughts and cries… They word the fall,
The feathery murmur and white smashed bones on the black, solid ground.
The wind rests silent, mute, the waters still and glass-like, silent, enjoying the gloom
Of the final fall… When the silken sheets lull me into last sleep like a funeral pall.
The Moon’s lurid haze admires the morbid sight
And all the unrest hovers serenely over the decayed ruins
Of the tormented domes and fresh graves.
The air. Steady, stale, seeping through the wreckage stripped of all its fluids.
The mist weeps, the clouds depart – Death brings the light.
The craving ones never get what their soul craves.
Decomposing mirth fills the frozen night, solemn but crude
As the waters still lay hideously serene and mute.
Serene and mute.