The Architects

Ornaments in silent darkness, 
the image of man now torn from its structure 

The smell of need, 
the dwarfed soul of man, 
attuned only to flesh 
suffering from frustration 

Alien to our own spirits 
We're naked even in death 
The dawn is yet to come 
to fill us with knowledge 

Pulsating waves of colour, 
bleeding off into the black 
A whisper of red screams through the night 
The architects and the flesh