Behind horizons, an indirect light.
Ambiguous twinklings will be here soon,
Dangling from gold orbs by string of kite.
The sky is cloudy, cloudy yet not gray
Behind a scowl climbs my blinded bawl.
The dusted earth seems fainter each rot-day
And still I saunter through the zombie-mall.
Hark! A silver surgeon slices my veil.
Her glittering scalpel, through my dull eye!
The ashen wasteland folds into a trail,
Facing in all ways, the angel doth cry!
The riddle unanswered, it slowly dies.
And from its shell, an omni-feeling flies.