Three times, your grimy nails click across this table, miming funerary chimes,
            Three times, you began, according to plan, clicking the number of man and a second,

A second more and you might have reached this poor core of this sore heart of mine,
            But a second less meant one yes less than a first caress.

And here, we're putting shells to our ears, revering hidden purpose in our own austere inventions
            The Beasts' beauty increased with every delicious warning from the now deceased sacrilegious priests.

A gross of Gods toast to the ghosts of their creations, morose men and mavericks that left their posts
            And a hundred bones creak from the sound of their moans, because they've reached their completion of the known.

That's how many times the heart beats in a minute, we admit, playing hard to get,
            And that means something, we insist in our in-betweens behind the scenes.

Yes,
            That means something.