The house if built on flesh and skin
the men are dying like dead leaves
and as we were but next of kin
the dying that bereaves.

The path is leading to the dead
his feet of flesh are feet of lead
his eyes of ghost are eyes of fire
slowly quenched from desire.

The path is leading to nowhere
within our hearts of pure joy made
we find ourselves built on despair
we find our lives made up with air.

My shadow follows me around
like a stray dog it makes no sound
my body like a trunk of blood
my soul beneath the sod.

To be painted with the colours
of forgotten sceneries lost
is to survive from what was tossed
of reflections in dark mirrors.

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