The rancid feel of heaven's weeping breaks  
a temple’s solemn peace, the red moon sha-  
ring its crimson glow with such heavy tears. The ru-  
ins drink in the pain, forever trapped in a clock.

The tarnished ruins slumber noisily  
amidst the seams of time, a stranded bell  
reverberating along the decaying walls.  
A ring so morose should never knell at six.

A dagger whetted in bloody brimstone stands  
in vigil light, the reddened eye of the hilt  
forever glaring down the open mau-  
soleum.  Their searing cries drown out the knell.

A whimpered plea resounds within the hal-  
low upheaval, a hellish screech escaping  
as a mere colt departs the falling haven.  The fu-  
ture carries in its hand a wrinkled head.