stow away then burn at your funeral pyre

this place grows dead with
rotting tongues that spew fire and
burn down bridges that
souls may never rest on (ever again):

a wasteland for the broken,
a suburbia for the sick

you call yourself gentle
servants? your hearts are made
of ice, your eyes of ash
from the dead:

soon you shall join them in
their quest, oh wanderers

you can spread your disastrous
disease, but plagues
will reign down from the scorns
of heaven, scorching
all flowers in bloom with the
seeds that were sown by

these fools of folly: your minds
deceive your heart. you're cunning
craftsman

but lovers you will never be