In frozen visions
They lie.
Blinded sentiment is cast adrift
And the wintry ghosts of deep past
Rise to inoculate the damned,
The desolate,
The fey.
They speak of hate
Whispers that hint at a soul undreamed, unmade,
And scars that show the result of the horrific
Of perfect cruelty, and salient blood roars
Along a manmade unreality.
Now an echo of graves, and fantastic screams
Disintegrate before the maddening touch
Of tangible spirit.
This world is just a borderline fluctuation of your fear
Of faultless judgment designed to rob the sanity,
To tip the primordial scales and
They speak of hate.
A murmuring screech erupts, encasing, exploding,
Scarcely grazing wisdom with its’ arctic
Embrace.
Itinerant motives are vigilant, waiting
To fear the dawn,
To placate the innocent lust, devoid of empathy,
To reign with a dominance of quiet
Terror intrinsically wrought.
Where defiance gives no quarter
They speak of hate.
With austere fascination to the unspeakable,
In frozen visions…
They scream.