The way home is a lonely road

Through the concrete jungle

Through the misery of dreams

Along the ridge of despair and broken dreams

With the odd drunken buzzard

In the desert of sound

In the cemetery, imagination runs wild

Desolate, cyclopean cities emerge

From the mists of time

From a place where time indeed has no meaning

And aeons of visions shatters with arrows of passing eras

It is here I find myself most often 

A living amongst the dead

And a dead amongst the living

On cobblestones made of dreams

And gravel churned from twilight souls

In bitter hope of the past

Destroyed like Nagasaki

And rebuilt like Hiroshima

Forever glowing in the minds eye

And suffering the agonizing horrors

By slowly dwindling away

To be remembered no more

The trees along the dark alleys

Whisper of forbidden fruit

The reaper turns in his harvest

From the all too proud population

This is truly the city of the dead

And it is here we all live

All as one