Foul Whisperings Strange Matters

Treptower Park

Archway of crowns and words
of foul and fallen souls.
Up to the sky, black bird
of shadow. Hail! The truth is closer...
Hail! The King awaits.
Stairway of steps, down to hell...
Round and round and round and grey.
The King awaits. Hail! The truth is closer...

Imperfect, speak now!
Imperfect, prophecies of blood...

Imperfect, choke now,
no mercy, cold disdain...

The ghost of her soul is an empty vessel, lost.
Knock, knock who goes there?
Pathway of drunken words of pain...
She dies... and flies... and dares.

The beast is no more.