A spattered color, ashy clouds.
Helplessness of desultory sense,
And the smells of blood
Which stream through the emotions.
In the still lunacy
Which evil entities laugh us out,
Always we live.
In the psychological conflict
As it tears our temple out,
Now we are to be.
Climax of ruin,
Or the mystery of pleasure.
We glare at tomorrow,
As our nerves are on edge,
Falling to pieces.
Saying Sayonara to various things,
Losing many things,
Taking leave from various things.