Give Your Wrists

In droves, they flock to the shadows of the canopy

Just as one stops, another begins to cry

The mist, like fog, so dense. Occult

Man is forbidden here, for to disturb the vapours

Would poison the mind

So all that abide are dead still
These last few days

As the shadows this evening
Lenghten and pinpoint the last of the light
And the sound of the knives
Counterpoints the sobbing and moaning
The blood looks so dark