Blood stained mirrors manifest my thoughts,
As I trip through hallways built from dreams, 






Where black roses grow from ceilings,

![](http://i.imgsafe.org/8def881dac.jpg)
And voices of trapped souls sing their retched screams. 

Doors open and close with the speed of my thoughts, Handles made of jade.
Concrete walls seep into blood. 
Candles in the surrounding mud. 
Empty graves, abandoned spades.
And I look to the sun; and there is none.

And my heart has gone black, and they say it is the stirring. 
And my wings are cut, a fallen angel in the mirrors. 

![](http://i.imgsafe.org/8de34788e6.jpg)

My high has gone low, as I cringe and stutter. 
And within the madness there is light, trapped within a jar in a ceaseless night. 
Change coming slow, 
Frozen shackles now molten with non-resistant flow,
Chains that bind us create angles of liquid green glow. 
Shadows stalking slow. 

And in the black bleeding grass I find a wizards staff, the staff of Thoth of Egypt, A god of the past.
I turn to night with staff in hand, and unleash a soothing beam of pure vibration. 

![](http://i.imgsafe.org/8e307d20e9.jpg)

And the night fades into light at the sky’s breaking seem
And I disappear into a wall of steam,
And develop a need, 
To cut the seam that separates the world of the living from the hall of dreams: All is not what it seems.