Concrete Cockatrice Codpiece

Hard rock orgy Our souls are glaciers As each moving cog heats Stand still, transcend time, Assume the position supine Obsidian night cuts the sky To release fresh blood of rain It’s beginning to look like the plains Of my dreamscapes Haunting choirs conspire I see the smoke but no fire For crests descended Mission: Madness! My pressured memories Of some kind of nostalgic dawn Are coated in fool’s gold Brittle, they’re shattered by denuded disillusion, soon gone cold. When the curtain closes, I jeeringly mimic Moses And part the red C. (I inquire: are these MY memories?)