Oct 2018
This ripe darkness
this mourning dream
a wrenching weakness
fit for the guillotine
An arrangement made
sheer comfort prepared
the end of fate
and, oh, how I dared
This dry paper
this cold pit
an agonising vapor
that smells of blood and spit
'Tis my mind
my wicked flesh
a soul pined
peeled off and fresh
Dressed soft tongued
I raised Cain
being shunned
silenced I remain
This dawning fright
this nightly echo
here comes the blight
light, don't let go
