A blistered dome, a carbon sky, The sovereign furnace breathes its sigh. No golden thread, no morning red— Just an ember, cold and dead (Driving arpeggios, punchy kicks, wide pads sweeping in) Burned sun, hollow eye in the vault of glass, A dying coin in a pocket of ash over deserts of silence and lead, With a crown made of embers, cold and red A cataract of cinder weeps through vacant canyons, The dried-up veins of rivers choke on glass. The scorched horizon wears a shroud of static, Watching the parade of phantoms pass. Burned sun, hollow eye in the vault of glass, A dying coin in a pocket of ash over deserts of silence and lead, With a crown made of embers, cold and red A cinder orb... A silent core... No fire will rise Forevermore. (fading out)
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