The Damned
ZANE WILLIAMS
songs made of whispers silent screams like a choral of the dead needles
prick the softest skin and the breeze screams bloodlust these eyes gazing
over the hilltops burning red the night skies seem to follow me blanketing
me with crowds of grey and black the crowd of the damned screams eyes shown
red raise the dead the breeze screaming over the whispers in the dark
setting the leaves in sway hanging there like a body from the raftors
smiling back at me they wait in eager circles for me to stagger into the
darkness these images that i have seen they still burn inside of me