The 6:66, Express To Hell

In the fading last light you're stumbling in the smoke of imminent doom

Trapped in a subway to nowhere, that's more akin to a maze, or a tomb

And there's a shattering shaking, as the earth is quaking under your feet

As you look for a way out, but there's no escaping from a permanent sleep

And then you're turning a corner and ahead, slightly ajar, there's a door

But when you pass through there's no stairwell, there's not even a floor

And there's naught but air 'neath your feet and then a slope of a funnel

As you uncontrollably spiral, but there's a light at the end of the tunnel

Now there're wide awake sleepers and metal and a thundering ROAR!

With the repelling power of a pressurised air-wave of an invisible bore

And the light, that's too rapidly approaching, is as blinding as lightning

As the tracks start to quiver and glow, your lost senses are heightening

There's a godforsaken screaming of a loco, beyond your shuttering eyes

But the dead can never die again and for you now, this implicitly applies

There's a deafening wail and flashing red lights, but the crossing is level

And the driver adjacent is grinning, for he is kith and kin, if not the devil

It's just you and him, the skeleton crew and a whistle worse than a knell

Riding a ghost train, that's going non-stop, it's the 6:66, Express To Hell

And Hell is an inferno, a furnace, but it's a boiler that you have to stoke

Blistering your skin, whilst you're choking, as you breathe in the smoke

You're furiously shovelling, but the licking flames are melting your digits

And as the pressure is inexorably building, there's an explosion of rivets

It's the end of the line, but the smokestack atop is a steaming hot kettle

And the roar of the crash is vaporising rock and the wrenching of metal

Nothing stirs, but steam and the agony within of the deep burning pain

As you crawl from the wreckage, of the 6:66, the only stop for this train

In the smouldering smoke you escape through a door, but into a funnel

Slipping then falling, but behold, there's a light at the end of the tunnel

An Oneironaut

As his corporeal being fades, all his nightmares are by a dreamcatcher caught
Neural pathways guiding his amorphous lucid dreams, for he is an oneironaut
Opening doors along an endless corridor, for he is sure there is a better place
Neither here, nor there, but somewhere else, in the domain of time and space
Evanescing into his imagination's conjurations, he has orchestrated to exploit
In his solipsistic reveries he is slaying monsters, for he is a noble knight, adroit
Roaming through a dystopian paradise lost, of his id's creations new behaviour
On a grandiose self-righteous mission, to be his true and one and only saviour
Nightmares quietly tempt his restless sleeping body, but he's far away instead
And in a transcendental realm, he is courting those, he believes to be undead
Under the eternal spell, of the necromancers, he may choose to live in dreams
The final poisoned chalice, of inveiglement, as immortality beguiles and teems

Master Of Scythes

I hide away from you, I creep through catacombs and emerge in naves

I hold my breath, alone in the shadows, as a full moon shines on graves

...I am invincible, invisible, I am indistinguishable...

And you can't see me, or hear me, I am sure, for I have closed my eyes

As I guard my thoughts, against the nightmares, of the master of scythes

...but you are omniscious, insidious, you are pestiferous...

And my memories are slipping and dripping, they are like clotting blood

As my appalling skin is crawling, the tears are forming beneath my hood

...I hear a mantra, a shibboleth, I sense your breath, for its odour's death...

So I hide in dreams, stumbling through petrified woods, but I'm making tracks

Into a sunny meadow, yonder a farmer's reaping wheat, with a scythe he hacks

...and he hacks... and he hacks... and he hacks...

And he turns to me and he casually beckons me, with his bloody razor blade

Then quietly leads me, to a woebegone chopping block, in a graveyard glade

...I am informidable, visible, I am risible...

I kneel down, there's congealed blood on dewy grass, so I close my eyes

I listen to distant birdsong, for he is silent, for he is the master of scythes

(Swish)