A dreamless with a knitting machine
my skin in the flow of the stream
washes down into all but a dream,
starry eyes are closed in disbelief.

An angel flutters fallen awoken,
a gift to the unable spoken,
piano keys switch to a different key,
I'm finding it too hard to breathe

She's all in white and green eyes
never by tombstone in which I died,
silky mistress so mysterious
Dressed saintly in a sunday dress.

Schooled into a rhythm of chilled
Systematically against her will
She bites my skin but there's no peace,
when my soul has always been on lease.

True-less will one day become fact,
when little limbs stop withering about,
and believe in the Reaper's one day tale,
a warning for any paper boats to sail.

Demons are all around the angelic,
am I all but one a dreamily saintly?