There is a place I know of
where winters come alive...

We rest again in shadows
clad in cloaks of night...

Tarantulas and partisans
Telling Tanks and Telephones...

Automatic
Pristine...

Something is wrong at the hour of midnight.
Figures dancing, prancing 'round the clock...

Silver Flesh stretching taut across
Rotting, popping bones...

Come any, come all,
To the Carnival of Horror...

The soul has no domain behind
The eyes of viewers in...

The fear of truth in the written word
subtle, prolific and clean...

Well it comes again to the writing desk
where my quills have all absconded...

The bells struck a silent tone
bidding sorry welcome to those...