Veil me at dusk with a curtain of stars;
I want to live with the tenderness of war,
the blood-stained heartbeat
of gunpowder and sedition,
the hollow soul, the stolen bones,
the mute stare of seclusion.

Ankle-deep in mud,
forced to face each other,
we give few words to the thick air.
Few were ever needed.

Your fingers are cold and hard as ice.

Inside your ribcage dwells a colony of skeletons,
dusty and sanguine, broken and sharp,
building houses for the ghosts
of all the men you've killed.
I can hear them in the dead of night,
arid voices whispering "welcome home."

Veil me at dusk with a curtain of stars;
I want to live with your demons.