Fire The Trumpets

From the light of the dark sodden moon.
Rise with the ashes to take on the spoon.
Metamorphis without a right to behold.
Before much longer I shall turn to gold.

Statues laugh and angles taunt,
All of the voices help to haunt.
Fire the trumpets and foil the theories,
What aligns best is only conspiracies.

Weighted down into the caverns of sky.
A place where people ask nothing but why.
Yet there are no answers out on waves.
Don’t think this is how a universe behaves.

Statues laugh and angles taunt,
All of the voices help to haunt.
Fire the trumpets and foil the theories,
What aligns best is only conspiracies.

Wafers of calamity stitched into stone.
Threads from the melancholy; oh how they moan.
Protesting communion deep behind enemy lines.
Acknowledge and possess the moments in fines.
But never wither and wave.
Bring about turning the page.
Doomed to the masses of blackened swans.
Reattaching what has been defined as wrongs.
For no peace is eternal when signed in blood.
Prepare and hold on for the impending flood.
Butchered with rocks and battered to bruises.
Too many of the gathered contain short fuses.
And speaking in riddles breeds only brokers.
Inclinced to destroy with a field of scorching pokers.

Statues laugh and angles taunt,
All of the voices help to haunt.
Fire the trumpets and foil the theories,
What aligns best is only conspiracies.