A citadel to the forsaken;

Those that have mistaken their sunken lives

For suitable ones, that soars only when the moonlight

 Is below their nimble clammy bodies.

 

A fearful, lament, firmament where the dead are buried within

The silver slithering pasty clouds.  Only to decay

As pettiness steam and somber ashes.

 

This stupendous, nefarious, imperial bastion

Open its bright warm gates for a child in

Sunset, with a pile of blushing sand he calls home

In his dismal hands.

 

Now crimson with resentment, the cosmos

Surround the strong hold with eons

Of desolate souls and solemn obscurity.

The warm rose gates open once more as it floats

Above the sky and into the frame of era.

 

Standing colossal to the blue souls below the bastion,

A frame of humanity, a human effigy cloaked in twilight

With sand in his hand now blows into the celestial space.

 

Like pollen, specks of flaming sand fades into

The souls that animate into the cosmic beach that carries

The strong hold. 

Now the conscience of the child with ground falls

into the void.

The soft void he calls home holds the begotten ashes

That dashes from left-to-right transcending

 his imagination.

 

His eyes now open to an ocean of maroon sand with

No end in sight.

With all his might he screams at clouds above that

Fly like doves ablazed.