Perhaps its best we cannot sleep
That eyes burn
That fingers weep
In the morning, should we still blink
The breath returns
The feeling sinks
Under the noon, where dreams are cold
The chest will collapse
As memory folds
Before the sea, where light is frail
The arms will creak and wrap
Around the shallow pale
When favour leaves the lame and young
They will speak in toothless tone
They will pay to use their tongue
As statues lead the morning choir
The children all wear shoes of stone
For fear of seeing any higher
The willow bursts and spring combusts
Onto the row of newborn nimbus
A sight beyond our awe or disgust
The angels lift us off the ground
To the gilded cliff of old Olympus
Where heaven was murdered by one last sound
The stale sound repeated, and pounded with sour trembling rasp
The sun was defeated, retreating a coward with the angel's gasps
As they too were shot, ****** dry by leech with pinioned skin
Now lay in their rot, plucked and beached on shores of sin
O, the sound of horrid noon
And every lasting ache
Came from the hidden moon
Begging me to wake
Oct 17, 2020
Oct 17, 2020 at 11:16 AM UTC
Perhaps its best we cannot sleep
That eyes burn
That fingers weep
In the morning, should we still blink
The breath returns
The feeling sinks
Under the noon, where dreams are cold
The chest will collapse
As memory folds
Before the sea, where light is frail
The arms will creak and wrap
Around the shallow pale
When favour leaves the lame and young
They will speak in toothless tone
They will pay to use their tongue
As statues lead the morning choir
The children all wear shoes of stone
For fear of seeing any higher
The willow bursts and spring combusts
Onto the row of newborn nimbus
A sight beyond our awe or disgust
The angels lift us off the ground
To the gilded cliff of old Olympus
Where heaven was murdered by one last sound
The stale sound repeated, and pounded with sour trembling rasp
The sun was defeated, retreating a coward with the angel's gasps
As they too were shot, ****** dry by leech with pinioned skin
Now lay in their rot, plucked and beached on shores of sin
O, the sound of horrid noon
And every lasting ache
Came from the hidden moon
Begging me to wake
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