Stricken

Drop Me in the land of the lost.
Where wandering souls gather in the dark.
Dancing on quicksand with smiling faces
strait into the arms of the hangman.

Neath the shade of a tormented wing.
Sting, sting. Strip this dull sense from me.
Keep the pieces, the aches and feelings.
Scraping for meaning with the shaking tips
of my fingers.

All the castles. All are built from the ashes.
Playing catch the trippy flashes with the dragon.
In the distance I hear its roar beckoning
a reckoning echoing down familiar streets.

Bells must ring and ring. This fog and sound,
it now surrounds the temple and it's sinking in.
Like frost, it clings to the bruises and broken skin
of the people. Like a god in the dark.

Out there they dance blind in a breaking fog.
And that's where I saw smiles on the faces of the fallen.
As The viper slithered on down the river.
Slipping quietly. Slow and fridged.

This breach, a mould for broken spirits.
Stricken, they flail and fail to even notice.
This toxin is potent and there's no cure for the bitten.
Surrounded by the damned in the land of the fallen.

I witnessed them dancing on the quicksand in the dark.