I crawl to bed , a silent dream to a melodies' prayer,
off I whisper, my begging, to clouds.
and you know the sound of sin.
happy he is, the fruitful snake,
the life that terminates at a humans gaze.
soundless sarin. gaseous respiration
out of necessity at the manufactured devil as he smiles
his job is complete
he always gets his mark,
if you believe.
its always hands that strangle the throat.