The bellows are burned
The ire is consumed in the fire
Nothing is learned
You left the ones you desire
The finger points to you
But that is nothing new
They provoke themselves to the confusion of their own faces
Trace the scars back to all those hidden places
Through gardens of eden deserts of scrawl
They fall among them that fall
The harvest has passed, the winter is ended, and we are not saved
You see yourself sitting naked on the sand
A promise and a prophesy in each hand
You mirror a mirage moving alone
You call out but it is gone
A ripple of gasps from behind a curtain
You part them only to enter oblivion
-Nausher

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