"Here the wind rages
Through the marsh; the filth of ages
Ever swirling,
Ever rising,
Ever curling,
Ever dying.
The blood-lit red horizon,
Never drying,
Never drying.
And the withered breath of violence,
Whispering of d**h and silence."
"Hear the wind roaring:
Drowning tears and cries galore in
The putrid, gruesome filth of scores,
That came before
And stayed for more.
Burgundy mud bubbling
Mulling the curdled, and burdened blood:
Vinous, pungent fuming.
The glutton pool ever consuming
The lavish feast of rue and ruin
Ravenousness an illusion."
"Here the relentless wind bellows harsh:
Thunderous screams marshalling the marsh.
Arching waves marching,
Charging at each other, and
Arms clashing, struggling
Then crashing down. Huddling
Muddled in the mora**
To sluggishly rise a muddy ma**,
To fall again, and fall again.
The rotting filth of brothers
Searching: lost with one another."
There your sense deceives you.
The sultry, miasma
Befuddles and slants
Directionality.
From afar the quagmire
Is masked by a lordly
Crimson aura swaying:
A fata morgana.
And if doves were to fly just
Above they would find no
Ireful wind, but a whisper from the sodden tilth
Of frenzied unbegotten filth.