The Black Lodge

Under the sycamore tree
Where the music never stops
I met a little man and a giant
not long ago from today.
Their faces were made of masks,
the masks lied on the floor.
The floor was a molten chessboard,
Smudged by the perpetual heat
which the infernal floor breathes

Somewhere now afar,
The woods whispered a song,

In the voice of my estranged lover

And the red curtains fall

When the lights are drawn
The music continues playing
And the show goes on.

The men spoke at length,
In an incoherent tongue

The dwarf jiggled while they spoke

on the sound of music that played

From a place that seem far away.

And with him, the walls of red doth swayed
As nonchalantly as the little man in the little red tuxedo.

Perpetuity was actuality

And music was as much repetitious

As the gyrations of the little man.

A woman,
dressed in darkness of a moonless night

Came from behind the walls that swayed.

She whispered in my ear,

'There's a killer on the loose

He resides within these walls of red.
We are all his prisoners;

Trophies of his loot,

We can't leave, we can't breathe The air,

beyond this Black Lodge of nightmare.
He eagerly awaits your audience
And the one who brought you here.'

So I walked through the floating red wall-

Into oblivion

where the Master Puppeteer dwells.

Here, in this land of eternal sleepers,

the music stops, at last.

When the creatures from the end of time 

ascend from abysmal low
to take away my shadow

leaving me behind, lone;
ready to be served
to the Master of Souls.

Inspired from the last episode of David Lynch's Twin Peaks.