Isolation

An indescribable sadness hung over These shifting forms and structures. The hopelessness of passing time And the melancholy Of unalterable past events. Quiet over the hilltops now, Woodland birdsong ceased. Alone beneath the sky I stand again. Wait, weary one: Soon, like these, We may also cease.

Submitted by Celtic Frost — Apr 25, 2025

Age, And separation, And cold. When winter comes Where shall I find The shadows of the earth? The walls stand speechless and cold. In the wind The weather-vanes rattle.

The painful discrepancy Between the ideal and the real. The melancholic nostalgia of Brahms. A wind upon the open fields Like a burnt offering. The banished one listens In his night-dark lair To the songs of the ancient ones. An old, old fable haunts me, And will not let me rest.

Submitted by Iron_Wraith — Apr 25, 2025

This track is instrumental.

Is this song not instrumental?

The cry essaying the waters; The autumn gale that bites the vine And announces the new wine. In the forest I dreamed of One hundred blossoming roses. A scent of sunshine Shields what is yet to unfold.

Submitted by Dahmers Fridge — Apr 25, 2025

The irreality of the past, Its nonexistence; Obscured by reverberations in all directions Calling from across the rotting sea From an endless desert where nothing can grow. Smothered by what, in the mind, has grown so powerful and unbearable. Something so long dead.

Submitted by Grave666 — Apr 25, 2025

A plague of nostalgia for a fictive past, Not merely dead, never born, is the most desperate form of escapism. Accident of birth, the pride of the insipid. Blood still runs, rose-tinted, Spilling on the red rock In starvation and waste In fanfares and marches and broad arching melody. Wastelands ruled by ruined kings. Curses never lifted.

Submitted by SerpentEve — Apr 25, 2025