Wilted Coverings.

Tears drop on the smoldering fire

Burning echoes reaching from the grave.

Angels strive, beckoning onward

Demons cry, no contact has been made.

Prophets speak of lies in season

To clarify a future  wrapped in chains.

With staggered footsteps they shuffle off blindly

Having eaten their sins fresh off  golden plates.

No saviours come to try and find you

There are no dreams to come.

Truth resides in a bottomless chasm

Restrained forever, sight blinded by the bones.

 Lying in repose here beside you, silent screams abound

Willful dreams will always find you, the beating of your heart makes no sound.