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