O CREATURE OF THE STARS,
BEAUTIFUL AND WICKED,
HUM TO ME YOUR WRETCHED SECRETS
( your melancholy tunes )
OF SILVER SHOT WOUNDS AND
ABSINTHE-SOAKED BRUISES.
YOUR ROTTEN HYMNS,
so deadly and charming,
FLOAT FROM COSMOS TO COSMOS,
REACHING THE YOUNG EARS
THROUGH BROKEN RADIO SPEAKERS
AND GRAMOPHONE HEARTS
AND THE WHISPERS ON THE OTHER
SIDE OF THE COLD GLASS.
IN MY VOICE, IT APPEARS THAT
THE END OF OUR UNIVERSE
WILL ALWAYS BE BY THE HAND
OF MAN. ( and that too, is a mistake and
of course, you cannot do anything about it,
you decaying piece of a god )
THE FLAMING HIRAETH
FOR THE DEAD LEAVES
ON THE SIDEWALK,
COVERING THE CORPSES
OF CROWS, AND THE
SILENCE OF THE NIGHT
THAT FILLS YOUR LUNGS,
drowns you.
BUT YOU ASKED FOR THIS.
YOU DID.
YOU ASKED FOR THIS.
