These days are now blackouts for the spirit
One by one to the abyss they are gone
Cast into deep and dark winter's mood pit
That seems never to infinities done
Lake of blackness running to the ocean
The buried silences to the opened wound
Flowing pass on of moving implosion
With spectrum of its nebulous playground
A feel that comes with nothing to give
Depression of its sentiments within
This backyard of the low and very out
The insignia of songs that can not live
Into odium loop it shall go and spin
Flocks of peripatetic ways and doubt
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