The black tower, black tower; standing like an infinite spire.

Unable to tote what’s beneath it–unwilling to be made low–

Dead tower blowing in the breeze. A prison disguised as a castle; black tower, black tower—

And what is silence? Is it shadow?

Is it a mute maiden? Is it she? She and her silence?

If she is dead on the inside, then lo, the tower must be worse.

By a thousand leagues, for the halls are traversed, by a lifeless creed–

“I follow the black and white checkered floor tiles”, says she—black tower, black tower—

Black tower for the inmates, insane and inept, dutiful and doomed.

“I spiral down staircases.” further into the darkness say her—black tower dweller, all alone in the dark.

This nightmare is ever changing, and endless, it is a death sentence—Memento Mori—remember me; Death.

Unlocked by fear; the fear of us. We all, one and each, spiraling down.

The tower is filled with vagabond clutter; dressers, and dark doings. The black tower of rot; yet useful to dwell in.

Is it black tower of darkness, or black tower of harkness?

Standing like a poniard shoved in a bleeding brown arm—brown was the earth, poniard standing in the ruins.

Black poniard. Nowheresville incarnate—forever to sway and stand—

And this crippling ungodly loneliness is despair—returning unto me like a rubber band—