Through the musty swamps of the valley I go
my sight grows hazy and grey
I can smell insanity at every turn
I trample through waters and whey

darkness rapes me in the still of the night
my weary feet rage on through
the lizard king in the distance of death
my heart cries tears of dew

overrun by the grave, the reaper on my trail,
I run with ankles of fire
my distance erupts in the foothills of my soul
my prosperity bogged in the mire

I run like fog that flies through the cyclone
a graverobber, and for my sins I burn
the hyacinth house I see in the clear
in unison, we all await my turn

through the door of the damned my body flows
I trip in the hallway of iniquity
I clutch at his cloak made of iron and ore
but the menace in the night shows me no pity

(from “Part Three: Seduced By Fantasy…”)

More of the Jim Morrison influence. Trying something different, abstract.