FROZEN SOUP IN UGLY CHUNKS

There is a deep well, on the banks of a shifting stream,

Where, sputters there, remains of shadows spewed and shadows spent;

Of blackness, in the evening sun;

In the golden sun; in the eyes of the infernal sphere,

With little love to share.

An echo of a cracked and crumbled melody,

Curls like stone beneath the sulfur sea,

To reminisce on a dismal dream,

For those who wish to see.

There is a cozy cabin, on the bridge of man and madness,

Where, there, the seraph drops her wings,

And mopes in bleary sadness.

Devil boy drinks his days away,

His dumb brain moans; his body sways,

Ashes to ashes on the floor in decay.