The Mercury Shroud

In the halls of Palmyra, where stones drink the Swamp's ancient bane, The phoenix burns crowns, drawing signs of Alchemical pain. Lorenz lies frozen, entombed in her crystalline Shrine, Where spring never pierces the vaults With its blessing divine. While high up above, in the gold of the Palace so bright, the mindless nobility dances away Through the night. Deep under Elijah, in a dark silence, Sin starts to grow. The phoenix descends to the shadows where reason Lets go. Through corridors hidden beneath the Freemason's disguise, the alchemist walks where the Suffocating sulfur mists rise. Near the Watergate pavilion, a rusted old blade lies Concealed, forgotten by priests, Where the wounds of the dead never healed. The cold waves are beating against the forbidden Frontier. The dome of rotund is swallowing echoes of Fear. He's melting the lead now, Rejecting the heavenly lore, to ransom her soul from The Stygian bottomless mire. The cold Baltic mist starts to seep through the Cracks of the floor. The tide is awakening, pounding the subterranean Door. He whispers the words that the Maker has Long cast aside, to shatter the seals where the Silent dead's secrets abide. Out of the Baltic silt, out of the deep Freezing mud, rises the one whose dark crown is But ashes and dust. The phoenix believes he is god of her flesh And her blood, but enters her grasp, Drowning deep in her sorrow and lust. No heartbeat is left under garments Of widows he stole. This shell has no warmth. And the grave has reclaimed her lost soul. My eyes are so pale, and my Lips are like heavy cold lead. I have returned to your side From the vaults of the dead. Through freezing abyss of the Dreams that were shattered in vain, Where we are entombed in our Crown... Of dark ashes and pain, But enters her grasp, drowning deep in her Sorrow and lust. No heartbeat is left under garments Of widows he stole. This shell has no warmth, and the Grave has reclaimed her lost soul. Through perfume of youth and the silk of her Bridal disguise, the rotten black bone of the Swampland begins to arise. He clutches her hand, but his fingers are slipping Away, and love turns to terror, To helpless and bitter decay. Down on his knees in the slime of the Water gate stone, the alchemist begs for the beauty That once was his own. But silence remains, and the mist of the underworld Vault writes death on his back as his trembling Efforts default. I watched as the circle of darkness closed in On the mage. As Neva dragged down the mad fool in her Freezing wet cage. The heavens forgive not the warmth of necromantic Demands, bequeathing but dust to his broken Alchemical hands. I saw how the retorts went dark, How the mercury sank in the sand. Three hundred years Neva has guarded his dust on This strand. And every time when the fog rolls over Elijah's Shore, I hear The sad weeping Of one who wanted to soar, But became only silt. But became only silt.