Dark Omens

 

Out of place, out of time,
is this vision, this dream of mine,
this wreckage of wonder, this ruin.

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So what am I doing
in this waste of ageless beauty?

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I'm pondering depths of futility
while hope hangs in tatters
in the still-life of existence,
while thoughts drown in shadows
in the cold, dark heart of the night.

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Deep the seed was once sown,
and the fruit is now fully grown.
The root has been transplanted,
and philosophy is recanted.

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Dark omens your eyes portend.
Mystic messages spirits send,
and dreams meet their bitter end
as long roads, tortured, wend
the lonely way back again.