The Dry And Weary Lands

The form of fury, trodden low

Beyond the row and traveled lanes,

Gripped by chains of light and fire

Does it hurry, moving slow

Sands from time blow harshly by

In the eye and mouth they fall

Draining all the one’s desires

As it climbs toward the sky

Service as a saddened will

To feel the freedom all as calloused

Madness as its longed for liar

Burdens pass as crimson spills

Up the spired wave of burning

Burning ground and burning rage

Age has crested on the spire

So much higher than its yearning

Sea of sands roll everlasting

No more grasping for the hate

Death has finally found its buyer

In the hands of one not standing

Lights surround atop the hill

Feel the last of burdens lifting

Sifting hate as it expires

Be found the tortured, murdered Skel