Desolation's Harp

In your dream-spun kingdom the rains never cease. They transform your low roads into stagnant, murky shallows Dotted by the odd limb of timber and unsinkable refuse. They keep your high roads in states of perpetual disuse, Camouflaged from sight by sodden overgrowths Of sinewy briar and serpentine vine. Shielded in a musty refuge high atop your flood water mansion You pluck your harp against the deathless echo of the driving rain, Humming a joyless mantra not a single soul can hear. In your dream-spun kingdom you seek a solace only the rains can lend. A deathless echo to drown out the whispers of a fraying lucidity. A deathless echo to drown out the clamor of every tramp and knave. A deathless echo to drown out the sorrows of the barely living and the freshly dead. You'll forever pluck the strings of desolation's harp Longing for a soul to share in your oblivion.