Lost Town Of Guinevere Poem by Kelly Boutin

The streets creak with death and age, tornadoes swirl about the ashes, as the fires burn on with rage and leave a path of desolation; souls lost in the haze, lost from temptation.

In the dark, the dead freeze hard, brittle to the bone with cold.
The living hide their fright in chars, as the winter takes a bitter hold and to the victor's battle scars, grows a yellow, graying mold.

There's no such thing as warmth, chills fill the fiery fear.
Their music is of the storms; twister screams are all you hear.
With bass guitars, they add their mourn, to the Lost Town of Guinevere.

Stone walls, draped in Fungi, enclose the whole tortured place, keeping the prisoners forever inside.

Here pain is the only way, this is a prison of the mind; there is no actual place.

Anyone can be there, you could be now.
You don't know or you don't care.
What is there to worry about?
This place is a nightmare, you won't realize, ‘till there's no way out.