Jesterhead
05-16-2010, 08:26 AM
In a mighty hall of dark polished beings,
I stand whispering, waiting to scream out loud.
The wonderous challing bells, restrained for the recievings,
A red dice falls from a hand within the screaming crowd.
As with one voice a scream is heard from a thousand tongues,
The curtain in front, slowly lents the folds for the voice within.
As the grey light, starts to demper, to show whom the voice truly belongs,
Five black dressed men with white paled skin, walks in.
As a white light, realms the dark crowded room,
Through the balmy air of the eternal voluminous night.
A frantic fire, rhymes the cast of a pale-faced moon,
With two fingers raised on each hand, I ring out my delight.
Along with the massive crowd of a thousand smiling faces,
With raised arms screams out their affright with desperate desire.
The tell tale dice, still rolls on the floor around moving feet of distant places,
To show the world the madder, of what is truly dead to a denire.
The voice of a hundred whispers, to tell the terrors of despair,
To compare every sound, that floats within their throats groan.
A roam of clangor horror, to outpour the palpitating air,
To feel the glory of the crowd, all alone, in the muffled monotone.
As upon a world of merriment, their melody foretells,
With a crystalline delight, of icy air casted through an adorn blue light.
Which cast the shade above the stage, of the roaming wells,
That swells the deaf crowd, through the fire of the decieving night.
Then still the red dice rolls among liquor within silence,
As within the dancing crowd that kept time in a Runic rhyme.
For not to be stopped within the raddle of the moshpit violence,
Of dead men, who pushes the next one, in the line.
Then the neon green light on the stage, roams the screams of loud dreams,
As the sweat pours down from a thousand turbulent faces.
Which shakes the lighted room, to again to pursuive waterised streams,
The drums that with tumult bled the tones red, in loud alarum places.
To make the heavy clinger, flooded the crowd from ear to ear,
Linger the fire within, a dramatic tale of a dice on the floor.
That rolls between bare feet, which is now all shaking in fear,
For the simple question that lies within a resolute endeavor.
Which now seems to end the pursuit tale of the dice,
Just lies waiting for shaking hands to make it be read.
Now stops brad on the wooden floor, to make me realize,
That in the long run, we are all dead.
I stand whispering, waiting to scream out loud.
The wonderous challing bells, restrained for the recievings,
A red dice falls from a hand within the screaming crowd.
As with one voice a scream is heard from a thousand tongues,
The curtain in front, slowly lents the folds for the voice within.
As the grey light, starts to demper, to show whom the voice truly belongs,
Five black dressed men with white paled skin, walks in.
As a white light, realms the dark crowded room,
Through the balmy air of the eternal voluminous night.
A frantic fire, rhymes the cast of a pale-faced moon,
With two fingers raised on each hand, I ring out my delight.
Along with the massive crowd of a thousand smiling faces,
With raised arms screams out their affright with desperate desire.
The tell tale dice, still rolls on the floor around moving feet of distant places,
To show the world the madder, of what is truly dead to a denire.
The voice of a hundred whispers, to tell the terrors of despair,
To compare every sound, that floats within their throats groan.
A roam of clangor horror, to outpour the palpitating air,
To feel the glory of the crowd, all alone, in the muffled monotone.
As upon a world of merriment, their melody foretells,
With a crystalline delight, of icy air casted through an adorn blue light.
Which cast the shade above the stage, of the roaming wells,
That swells the deaf crowd, through the fire of the decieving night.
Then still the red dice rolls among liquor within silence,
As within the dancing crowd that kept time in a Runic rhyme.
For not to be stopped within the raddle of the moshpit violence,
Of dead men, who pushes the next one, in the line.
Then the neon green light on the stage, roams the screams of loud dreams,
As the sweat pours down from a thousand turbulent faces.
Which shakes the lighted room, to again to pursuive waterised streams,
The drums that with tumult bled the tones red, in loud alarum places.
To make the heavy clinger, flooded the crowd from ear to ear,
Linger the fire within, a dramatic tale of a dice on the floor.
That rolls between bare feet, which is now all shaking in fear,
For the simple question that lies within a resolute endeavor.
Which now seems to end the pursuit tale of the dice,
Just lies waiting for shaking hands to make it be read.
Now stops brad on the wooden floor, to make me realize,
That in the long run, we are all dead.