In the grey shrines district
The possession is taking a place
Cement shoes driving consciousness to the riverbed of spirits

A forced visit in the white theater
Filled with wax figures from the purgatory morgue
And the steep cliffs in the derelict, remote outskirts of being

And the gallows made of marble
And the library of intrusive thoughts
Reading whispering chants to sleep for the horrible nightmares to come
It is a morphine for the vigilante
Like a cave once locked with a stone
Like bermuda triangle of thorns for a lost, wayfaring soul

Butchered by the night, a lump of flesh being just a sculpture
Carved by its black, starry knives

Robbed of all the light, a lump of flesh consisting of
Shivers and gouged out eyes

If there is fire at the hospice
I'm resilient to see
Sink deep
Bones dissolve in the caustic ordeal

If there is fire at the hospice
I stay silent and dream
Breathe deep
Skin dissolves in the linen of guilt

A shroud on the eyelids
A brick wall too thick
How does it feel like
Deathdreamer, asleep?

A whispering cataract
With a promise to keep
Does it feel feverish
Deathdreamer, asleep?