That tenuous line between cognizance and sleep,
It’s a dangerous time for me,
When the sun no longer has my back,
And no valiant comrade can aid me,
The ghouls in my head stir,
Buried there by my own hand,
Silence is the loudest sound,
When the skeletons start to rise,
Dead hopes,
Spectral memories,
Wailing for my attention,
My skull becomes an echo chamber of a cemetery,
It becomes a deafening clarion call,
A deathknell for my peace,
A choir of revenants begin their concert,
Every historical ill laid bare at bellowing audacity,
Clawing at this mausoleum of my head,
Prelude to the nightmares to come.
WorldofHarley 