The Damned

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