In Flames

Towards the rich archaic heavens; towards the lack diorama
you are the artist of the texture
that plays with the mantle of the earth
When the bleakest of powders
lie rooted to the starched stones
and roots that feed the peaking trees
embrace the sleeping shores
Archaic pearls of sleep and death
the voice of December losing its breath
and the floweryard of white and grey is haunted