Yggdrasil mourns the passing of the world
The Ragnarok beast bears the gem of society
The world is a crown left for sheltered deities
In their inebriation; drunk on power
There are skeletons that climb up and down the coast
Facades of the past rusting in decadence
And there are vultures with international wingspans
Observing the world with myopic disdain
Their eyes purely crafted from stained glass
The carapace is beginning to diminish, and no man desires blame
Fiction is composed
Words are purchased
Minds are fed
With only the sweet nothings of meaningless lexicons
In the silence of deafening noise, these whispered names of former glory
Are all that can be heard
Can be seen
Can be felt
For all these whispers in the night
Do you wait for fragile things?
