Survey the remains

Lost far beneath distant sands passing time
Take the last stones of the land from their hands
And let the edge winds lie
Pure water soul is the slow kiss of death
Wide wake enough to clear the dust from my throat
And catch a silent breath

Cleanse and clear away
The history of misspelled age
A suit of nails to fake
Your creed cost only everything
Drip down the vine
Of what defines the pseudo story of mankind
"They who enter this sacred tomb shall swiftly be visited by wings of death.”

Strange white and cold living old in the know
Calm break of stroll rotting soul just below
The tongue that spits it out

Cleanse and clear away
The history of misspelled age
A suit of tales to take
Your scrolls our wisdom to impeach
Drip down the vine
Of who decides a last man standing left to die
“They who enter this sacred tomb shall swiftly be visited by wings of death.”

Buried short and thin over bite infected
Murder at nineteen cryptic heeding
Blemish on the face of time
Alter the fast forward and rewind

“It is I who hinder the sand from choking the secret I am for the protection of the deceased.”