the heart is divinely dull,
so angels sing and we begin to fall--
down, down into nothing for

waiting within love's red door,
is hell's hot floor;
forever burning bright it glares--

into the eyes of those consumed by flare,
and however sad it may be,
the singing angels do not pity thee,

so burn and burn into a black char,
consume yourself with the fires of the heart,
as the ******* does so happily,

for heaven is only a balcony--
cold without sting or pain,
you dance in hell refusing to be tamed.