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The wall on which the prophets wrote Is cracking at the seams Upon the instruments of death The sunlight brightly gleams When every man is torn apart With nightmares and with dreams Will no one lay the laurel wreath The silence drowns the screams Confusion will be my epitaph As I crawl, a cracked and broken path
A distressed male statue, half broken and revealing muscles and organs, stands against a cracked stone wall adorned with glowing golden magical symbols. Light and shadows play on the wall, illuminating scattered golden sparks. A vintage ornate rifle and banjo lie on the ground in front of the statue.
