The Deeds

The rhythm wasn’t composed by the savant

Some nocturnal churnings handed over those tunes through gremlins

Strolling down the ancient cobbled pavements, keeping an eye on sleepless souls

There’s certainly some magic in the air

Not one that is imagined by the purist magician, but of some devious wizard

Tap, tap, tap, comes strolling the words for the epitaph

Of fallen dreams and jealous pursuits from the abysses of anguish and destruction

Odious breath prophesies the most sinister of deeds that are contemplated


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