we wait in our passages of becoming
until all that is seen of the seasons that died
of what was seen in passages destroyed
gathered in the paths of eternal sadness
drawn among the trails of their madness
that where we stand in lines to become healed
upon our knees for the prayers to never be answered

fates among a spoken madness
seen from a forboding sadness
where we wait among reasons
when they watch the grey of seasons
told among the times of when
as the dreams become from the pen
where in the truth had lied,
that the dreams drawn from a faith long gone

of the things seen within the paths of rust
and those eaten away by all of the moths,
upon their knees drawn from the years of locusts
detroyed from whispers told in an echo of fear
that they seen from the gathering of their years
forboding from the seasons of their sorrow
eternal sadness they gathered,  places of darkness
of where they see the angels of heaven
and the daemons of hell, looking on
from the places of their abandoned hope

in the sleep where the cycles fall
as then when their death comes upon them
coming from the seasons that are looking on
pages told once again in change of seasons
to them gathered in lines -- seen from the eyes of a mortal
in places upon their knees pleaing for blood
where they gathered among the death in sins
their faith in rust,  their life would turn to dust
from them in seasons,  losing their reasons,

upon their closed eyes where they turn into habits,
that would see from patterns of the dreams,
where they fall forever into the place of the abyss,
spoken from madness as they would claim
looking for the reasons of their forboding blame
as they look to the sky for the answers they never receive
looking for the child that was from the virgin conceived
for the prayers that come adrift,  as they came with the tides
that come with the sybil's whispers,  they never came to cried,