Mobile of Angels

Witch Mountain

Slow descent into murkiness of mind, an uneasy fog, a familiar face
The paralyzed walk of the dreamer, innocent, receptive
What will he see at the end of the world, the edges of perception?
A cold and crowded forest closes in on one long aisle
A cover erected to shroud some strange attraction
Familiar face conveys with telepathic quality, gravity, severity, attend to what is hidden here
Cloudy eyes grow clearer as a ring emerges downward bearing shapes so full of beauty and of terror
The sound of an organ drifts on air and soon it fills the dreamer's ears
There gleam the fangs of wet lipped angels
Their eyes show no serenity, but glow with stark insanity, infusing such into the fear-bound dreamer
Poor dreamer, waking brings no comfort