In the beginning, formed in wind and storm,
A big mass of black with infinite math
swarmed and spat bitter heaven into form.
Lit up with precious stones, it filled with wrath,
Raining down upon the Fallen who shine
amongst the brightest of stars, but still spurned.
Therein rose vast wonders, seen in the fine
crystal shard reflections of dreams. I learned
while fogging into nightmares, affections
are to be seen only in brightest dreams.
For they are fathered by hateful reflections
and create absence in living dead seams.
Those seams of empty faces shine with fierce
intent. Silver screams climb free from my tears.
