A few stern questions for the Creator
To prove to the world
I’m not a person
I’m Pollution
I believed in monsters
You know
Like vampires
Werewolves
Ghosts
This constant urge
To tear my insides apart
To be devastated
To destroy my life
Sully my soul from the inside
Bury me twelve feet deep
Into the close and mirrored catacombs of sleep
Throw the church down over me
An angel under a white stone
There's awful strange things in this world
Open any door of your imagination
The lurking Presence
The sense of evil
Where the past is only part of the pattern
Swollen with the contributions of the centuries
Steeped in ritual atmosphere
And not without poetry and pathos
We dreamers of tomorrow and yesterday
Suffer...

Gypsy