Naught, but loss
in a world of thoughts,
the soul;
it cringing -- shrieks,
calling to a world so bleak.

Setting like a thousand suns,
the failed wrath of two thousand kings;
silent chanting of four thousand cherubs...
these are the words we bleed.

And flailing, it flies,
as if it does not know,
that the return itself,
breaks the one it owns,
(with sorrow piercing its bones.)

Setting like a thousand suns,
the failed wrath of two thousand kings;
silent chanting of four thousand cherubs...
these are the words we bleed.

Rotted urn (where it is held),
like an anchor at the bottom of the sea,
in our flesh held fast (bound and lashed,)
so it can never run or be free.

Setting like a thousand suns,
the failed wrath of two thousand kings;
silent chanting of four thousand cherubs...
these are the words we bleed.