Towards the rich archaic heavens; towards the lack diorama

you are the artist of the texture

that plays with the mantle of the earth



When the bleakest of powders

lie rooted to the starched stones

and roots that feed the peaking trees

embrace the sleeping shores



Archaic pearls of sleep and death

the voice of December losing its breath

and the floweryard of white and grey is haunted



White as the down of flaking snow,

the heroic emblems of life



Green is the colour of my death

as in winter-guise I swoop towards the ground

Green is the landscape of my sorrowfilled passing



We are In Flames

towards the dead archaic heavens

We Are The Mantle And The Texture

the alters the mantle of the earth