under the shadows, twilights of death's star
the sycthe stand above the cloak of lavender,
inside the chambers of black Lord's closed bar
no portraits, no lives, for the next order,

no muddy steps inside the doors of hell
death, the leveller, breaks the empty glasses,
the last one sank from the red blood shell
a note found, called life, under shallow masses;

the wind dances among the leaves of orchids
the works of mirrors reflects the smiles of life
the empty bar rises high from love lids
for soft patels soon be murdered with a knife;

the white shadow filtered from huts of skin
life and death are mysteriously kin.

~kbmw2203