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The Clockhand's Groaning Circles - text

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Clutching a giant laance of brass
Within a storm
That rushes silently
Through a hallway of mirrors
Drafts and visions beform me
Poisoned air burns into wounds:
The missing entrails -
Left behind
When my waste
Was creeping to life -
Hurt and bleed
Festering from wounds
That time has torn
That brass feasts upon
... in a rhytm, in a melody ...
Destructive and discordant
And finally mute -
When the eyes awake
Behind the senile web ...
These trembling hands
Won't save my ears
From deafness
These crippled thoughts
Won't save my soul
From death.

Text přidal DevilDan

Video přidal DevilDan

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