Black Metal
The trees were umbras of the night; A black cloud on a wooden pike. The vines which crawled a clammy fence; It's alloy : cobalt chrome. My quaint backyards' the forge of dreams; Of swords, restraints, and other things. But those get hammered down to sheets I'd rather not display. Is not a craftsman to be proud; of blades and stakes in bushy clouds? His smokers lung; a daggered tongue that's cast in smokestack lips. In fact I think these things I craft Are made by him not me, alas I can't remove this coat of mail encoded in my flesh. I must reweigh, to say the least. It's sabotons and ankle greaves The strap-on helmet, nasal piece, And plates which filled the rest. My dealer dealt a heavy hand. The gauntlet in a game of chance. My grip dissuades to separate the metal from the nail. If i'm a man that's made of tin, I should be glad. This state i'm in is surely advantageous. For dangers' just a abstract thought, a different skin; of which I sought. I lowered down my visor in reflection of those views. The blind can't catalog a hue Nor stubborn right a wrong Nor deaf assume distasteful tunes With no concern of song. I wonder in another life without this tin and other strife it's quality improves. But for now this yards' the forge of dreams; Of swords, restraints, and other things. And those I'll hammer down to sheets Until they're thin as skin.
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