Oh, curious ones, with your flashlights and cameras. You tread across our place of rest; touching and prodding, scraping and scratching, disrupting the quietude about this dampened, green place. Taking your pictures, writing your books, speaking on television, disturbing our loved ones with your questions and demands, carting those twitching and buzzing contraptions; as if a mere machine could capture that which your mind could never understand.
Scratching on headstones, painting chalk pictures to hang on your walls, telling the world that 'you' are an expert, a 'professional witness' to the afterlife.
We need no representation, for our souls are kept with The Creator. Your voices tout lies and deceptions about the places where your shoes have trodden, unwanted.
Leave us, curious ones, for your camera and contraptions cannot describe what we are, and they certainly cannot see who we once were. You are not an invited guest, but an unwanted tresspasser.
You're in such a hurry to see the beyond, so practice your patience and see. For you will be here, with us, before long, where your own eyes will finally then see.
Scratching on headstones, painting chalk pictures to hang on your walls, telling the world that 'you' are an expert, a 'professional witness' to the afterlife.
We need no representation, for our souls are kept with The Creator. Your voices tout lies and deceptions about the places where your shoes have trodden, unwanted.
Leave us, curious ones, for your camera and contraptions cannot describe what we are, and they certainly cannot see who we once were. You are not an invited guest, but an unwanted tresspasser.
Design by Tela Noctu "Aspectus" Copyright © 2005 The Corridors All Rights Reserved. Music by Midnight Syndicate Used with permission