Book of the Swarthy Cassonade: Chapter III - To Thread the Silver Wings

Whimsical stars shed their lullabies to our death beds
Sealed our eyes, should we rise to shine they stood no chance
We could dim their detached poison with a grand defeat

Plucked all the wrong strings and toned faulty melodies
Shadowed by the curfew of the weakened spirits
Shriveled in the corner of our private confinement

But beyond the solstice where the days grew old and weary
I shrugged all the symptoms and stepped away from all things solitary

Moments passed and a darkness gently seeped right back in
All the beauty deviated, deprived us of our singing voice
Coarse channeled feelings dropped one by one from the heavens above

The undercurrent fleshed out mock and taint from the carcass
Ground hugged our feet and rejected all the memories
Fell into the void where the future was lost once again

But towards the solstice where the days will vow their goodbye
I was torn into pieces, set aflame by the absent reply

Oh I know, from the odious ashes I would be born again
Showered by the past, as the tenacious phoenix I feign
Just despise this residual aftermath, the redundant ache
I will swoop down to feast on the life this hollow forsake

Book of the Swarthy Cassonade: Chapter II - On a Dreamy Day We Encountered a Plague

A sleep became a burden on our eyes, so we traveled afar
Beyond every star man can imagine, trickling down the boundaries
Perplexed by our inanimate floundering, we gnawed the limits to reach
The safe spot where nothingness shrouds our permuted felicity

A dream gently covered the façade and fed our hunger to strive
For all those years, an echo from the silent plate choked the void
Embraced our conflict with a mere interest to imbibe
We never got absolved of our tendency to implode with unrest

A plague preyed upon the candid dream and devoured us along
We stood naked to our decimation, obeyed the cordial reception
None heard us beyond the stars as we yelped a silent cry
With a chuckle, we became one with the receding tide

We thought we were.. we were none..

Book of the Swarthy Cassonade: Chapter I - The Withered Persona

As the clog scales the mountains in slumber
Jagged gusts unearth the monumental blister
Wailing with a shriek of mutiny, the cask bursts a deluge
Minute hand goes limp to the corroding vanes
Ashen torment mists the eyes that refuge
Deep in dusk to civilize with the havoc remains

The clog was enslaved to stupor for a reason
Raised amid the blunders, prone to treason
Concealed by the vermilion he needed to forge
Spawns the irresistible stand, a restless thrall
Pricked by the needle, a dent in the malignant gorge
Caves in and expires with a frantic gush of gall

The luster crumbles under what the clog can't atone
Last gap that emanates the verve abandons with a groan
Thriving heaps of echoes perfected a beacon
Scorned by an impudent arrogance the glands exert
Expected to restore the sinews of the nation
Only conceived a sedimentary empire of hurt