Lost Peacock - Virus

The wounds are leaking equivocal fluids

Flowing through a pale existence

The atmosphere that holds the heart

Is the black dam that subdues the tongue

A downward slope to the archives

Within lies the story of our decay

Ripe and complete, so address it now

The speechless mouth, the withered tongue

The crests on the path to the archives

The scented words, sent across the distance

They pare the walls

Coating the perfume in between the bricks

There was no gold in the rivers

The cold vault

The sparkling red sun is trapped

In the quiet room, the sound of the nervous moons' pulse

The walls cave in

You coil yourself around the earth

A downward slope to the archives