My wraith quells another's whispers of night
Like pores seep dry before open wounds,
And covers my eyes in careless haste
Like daylight fancies shadeless boons --
For what dark cavern is sealed so tight
To forbid his whispers of the night?
When skeletal hands meet unsightly demands
I sought to ponder love, and light...
Only dead men tell no tales, save for morbid fairy tales.
While velvet, wordless sheathes prevail, like tempest winds rip lonely sails.
His words were lilting, the dead can't speak.
Though one must wonder, now and then
what screams the darkness compensates
to hear when speaking fails again.
For those dead clasps made steel go weak
And terror dull it's very peak
The sovereign of death had stretched it's breadth
Like the carrion pierce of vulture shrieks.
Yet only dead men tell no tales, save for morbid fairy tales.
Though when the Reaper's own life fails, will holes rip through his sacred veils?