In the grey shrines district The possession is taking a place Cement shoes driving consciousness to the riverbed of spirits A forced visit in the white theater Filled with wax figures from the purgatory morgue And the steep cliffs in the derelict, remote outskirts of being And the gallows made of marble And the library of intrusive thoughts Reading whispering chants to sleep for the horrible nightmares to come It is a morphine for the vigilante Like a cave once locked with a stone Like bermuda triangle of thorns for a lost, wayfaring soul Butchered by the night, a lump of flesh being just a sculpture Carved by its black, starry knives Robbed of all the light, a lump of flesh consisting of Shivers and gouged out eyes If there is fire at the hospice I'm resilient to see Sink deep Bones dissolve in the caustic ordeal If there is fire at the hospice I stay silent and dream Breathe deep Skin dissolves in the linen of guilt A shroud on the eyelids A brick wall too thick How does it feel like Deathdreamer, asleep? A whispering cataract With a promise to keep Does it feel feverish Deathdreamer, asleep?