In The Arcane Clasp Of Unwritten Hours

Like a bliss of malaise this tainted air compels me
The unwrit hours pass again unheeded

Stillness, like a cold vengeance, no life shifts...
Grey ghost painted to the halls of ennui
Falling dust weaves bleary torpid scenes through a bleak day
In this drifting miasma sore eyes staring through the weary schemes of death

Strain of a stranger will bound me from within
Grip devoid of strength and the weight of dying stone

Forlorn, torn wisps of malady seethe... and entrance me
This picturesque scene fragile or so it seems, still unchanging beyond endurance.

Vagrant shadows tire of motion and abandon the empty halls harvesting the decay of the centuries past

Arcana of darkest kind this bleary sentiment unceasing like lying awake without will dreaming without dawn.

And the strength slowly drains, lay still and cease in the strenuous grasp of sloth