hark! we are the tragedians, we march abreast, onward to our inmost,
forever exploring the heavens to claw at carrion,
to cloth our hearts in thorns and our wounds in robes of salt tearful darkness,
devour me! for yours is an inmost of
scarlet tears, and likewise is mine, of mournful origin was the herald of the
sun,
as its marrow drowned in us, the
hordes of pain, laughing within the flames of a veiled and fevered tale but
ashore
the threshold to our very own
tragedies our eyes cannot move the firmament of grievance, holding the essence
of all
naked limbs, so sore but yet
heading for other tales from the blazing valleys in our midst.