Visional I

Still.
Slight wind keeps crawling down the line.
Cold fingertips throughout your spine.
The scent of death is in the air,
Which makes the sence of the despair.

The moon will never rise.
As from now on,
Foreverlasting night is coming on.
And shades are groving in their size.
It will pursuit us, till we alive.

Blessed are those,
Who think of freedom
Or of glory turning home.
Neither hope to leave this prison,
Nor recruit a fortune of your own.

True! It is a vengeance of your fate!
Cause in the ending of this date
The dominance of life in well
Will be prevailed
By the existance of the hell!

And everyone, including you,
Will suffer in severing pain,
From boiling in the flames of shame.