That ever useless howl of the heart.
Anguish buried in awful sound.
And the river rises once again in the
gleam of corrupted desire. The still
living stand on hills in the gloom
of defeat, watching, downcast,
hope a flickering taunt from beyond
the grave. Fat vultures cruise
overhead as the water deepens
and despair rides a red-eyed horse.
The Ghost Never Dies
His mouth a salacious snarl the leader
backhands kindness with a dark roar.
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Like a hurried storm the mob
rages back with thunder and steel
and screams that shake the abyss.
Here we are, once more, burning
in the furnace of ineptitude
dragged shrieking into the fiery
wasteland: sweet fear a staggering
thing, the immortal heart of this beast.