The meadow of sins

The grip of dementia
that smiles from a veil
distorts all my visions
my passions of clay
she gathers the nymphos
the child and the rain
the ballet of death
is our own masquerade

The lanterns are shining
from my stoned demise
that sparkles like stars
while I’m dying inside
the ghost of my sorrow
you just cannot bear
for nothing is worth
of my needless despair

The ballet won’t stop
till out voices are whispers
like black frozen drops
in the hands of our twister

You walk on the scaffold
you try not to see
you blame me for something
you seem to esteem
in who is delighted
to laugh at your sorrow
in name of your love
she’ll kill you tomorrow

Silent is howling
your death dressed in white
you don’t want to see
that your time now is nigh
I may be deceived
by my silent devotion
but all that I see
is a shallow black ocean

The ballet won’t stop
till our voices are whispers
like black frozen drops
in the hands of our twister

The dead cannot tell us
what’s wrong and what’s right
but walking together
we shall see the light

The meadow of sins

  • Artist
    Notes
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desktop tablet-landscape content-width tablet-portrait workstream-4-across phone-landscape phone-portrait

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