by Nick Gisburne
Accept, endure, the Garden of Despair
A place of pain, where midnight drowns the dawn
Where bladed angels pick and prune and pare
The spirits of the near- but never-born
Salvation is impossible to find
It suffocates the dreams of all who seek
And those who touch the Dark Creator’s mind
Become the damned of which the sacred speak
Each seam of souls, each layer on the last
Another weight to crush what cries below
A thousand miles of misery, amassed
To deal the hopes of man a bitter blow
He burns the screaming faces with his seed
They burst, they bloom, and from his blood they breed
