He crouches on the floor, there's a mask on the wall   And he leafs, through the pages of a book   But wait as he may in the shadow of other leaves   His heart, in embraces to times long since scorched      The horizon folds over, with a purpose sun rise   And the wind, carry smoke, from the world that is burning   The smoke clogs in his hair, and he's covered with patterns   And a decent, of life trees, on his camouflaged soul   With a winter of memories, carved ponder bone white   Beyond his sculls for, a scorpion lies   In the crunch of the snow, as his darkness increases   A twilight of ice, encircles his teeth      This is a song for Douglas, after he's dead   This is a song for Douglas, his mercury dances      There's a swastika carved, in the palm of his hand   There's a crooked cross, that is caught in his mind   There waits a falling sun, in his eyes   There's the honor, of violence, on his lips   His father waits for him, in the towers of silence   Where they worship the fires, so long ago quenched   And the two willow trees, with el has inverted   The fork of life snapped   They are father and son   So mingling dust, as if life itself, had been mostly illusion   But parchly real   And parchly pain      And over some wall, if you look through ruble   Amongst ruins of churches, where life conquers death   Thou empires can not last, where blood and concepts   The folted and failed   A cloud still sow his teeth   As the world disappears      This is a song for Douglas, after he's dead   This is a song for my Douglas, his mercury dances