The Shroud on Turners Hill

Turners Hill still drenched in fog Metal spires reach through the clouds Sightless eyes that see no sights No one looks up and I can't look down Unaware and unconcerned No one can judge my great escape Truth and reason now revealed A hanging body taking shape And as the day time Burns away the mornings shroud My final scream into the void Will be heard loud And clearly visible for miles There for all to see My final desperate grasp for infamy