dead, cold, night

alone, our world waits, with great demise

soft and silent incantation provides

parched angelic lips long since dead, debrief,

converted by their madness' disbelief-

yet it breast beats clock work with true disguise.

this ghost agaist the ebb of time with jelous eyes

 mortal flesh may bend, become cold, relief:

of such a forign object mortal grief,

its madness call to arms all those who dare

a light within cannot pierce frozen still

its unimagination is compared

surrounded: burning world without a will

yet in the presence of bring great despair

absence forever biting  itching chill

yet its reward is warmth beyond compare.