Just a bunch of old vampire bones, pounded
Into dust by a silver hammer's blow;
Trailing across the gilded mirror, mounded
Into drifts of icy winters stolen souls.
The palace of the seven moons stands high
Upon the crest where the one mountain
Pierces the black hole of eternity's sighing
Breath, and there flowing red from the fountain
Pooling, into golden eyes of feral sheen,
The children of tomorrow caper in abandon.
While the orchestral fragrance of melancholy dream's,
Lends a stultifying effluence of random
Insane chatter, and the fulminating climax
Where your brain burst to smithereens.
Standing upon the parapet you relax,
Flying like a mosquito to the gleaming eye, in dreams.
After all it was just a bunch of old vampire bones,
And you had nothing to do, aside from being stoned.