The steps to the museum were many ,
you helped me climb the stairs .
Before my eyes ,
behind every glass frame you had placed every living ***** of me .

You bought a program which you called art ?
A wooden chair .

Before  me lied exhibit number one .
Burnt out ,
torchered ,
bleeding ,
dying ,
I saw my heart ,
in a frame ,
In front of me .

For it was there in a dungeon you left me ,
with nothing but stale bread to eat ,
you hung you’re axe of judgement O me .
For What ?

For it was deaths daughter of the crimson lip ,
that had touched my lips .
A traitor ? Not I ,
A herotic maybe ?
For her words were like flowing rivers eastwards towards the sea.
And her chambers  had  a soft fluffy bed .

Angels hold locks and keys ,
they hover above my head ,
a jailers cart you ride with horse and whip ,
With me clinging to iron bars inside ,
with chains upon my heels.

Oh butterfly where are you’re butter cups ?
Where is you’re lavender wine ?

As we left the museum the doors were bolted shut ,
and the evenings light caught the roof tops of a red sunset ,
forever frozen in time .
As if two thousand lovers prayed .
Could this be our lasting memory,
our final serenade ?