Iron posts, hands on a dial, piercing miles of tiles
Not coarse, a rest to hold a ghost, descended with a dawn

Glistening autumn rails departing, those of winter riding in
'Tis the grime again to cover, tar, adhering matter waiting
For collapse or unchainment
'Twas matter that had paid, receipts, crumbled crossing cracks
In cursed gusts returning eyes, to sockets greased to plenty a time
A single hair afloat in breezes, connecting useless shoulder blades
Warped, entangled, bones and iron, yet never to stand as one

Bones and iron parting, unsteady limbs aligning
Senses frying on foreign tongues, these of most despicable descend

A mind returns from hell
With hands too many to bear the words
With words too many to spew the curse
With curses too many for a day
With days too many to curse
A mind turns back to hell

No more are the waves through which to be caressed,
By delicate souls, departing on autumn rails...