YOU ARE TOLD THE SECRET OF TURNING BROKEN GLASS INTO DIAMONDS, IT CALLS FOR A LOT OF BLOOD: ITS HARD TO PUT A LEASH ON A DOG WHEN YOU PLACE A CROWN ON ITS HEAD . ONE WHO LOOKED AS SWEET AS A RELIGIOUS ICON, LIKE SOMEONE YOU WOULD KILL AND SACRIFICE YOURSELF FOR . A GENTLE SORT OF HORROR / BEAUTY SINGS SO SWEETLY IN THE SAME TURN THE EDGE OF A HUNTER HEWN KNIFE . EVERYONE IS CAUGHT UP IN VINEGAR DRESSED WITH HONEY , GAZES TRANSFIXED , TO BE HELD UNTIL IT HURT , UNTIL BLED , YOUR ALWAYS HUNGERING :  AT A THROAT . THE THINGS THEMSELVES WERE DECAY, THE WORKS THEMSELVES WERE CORRUPTION, EPHEMERAL SEDUCTION. WHERE DOES THIS LEAD US ?       The cold hand of harvest , feral god . The wraith , no glories are erected in your name, only shadows and murmurs pass along those who dream of that misty tomb .              You look out / and the sun like my hand on your face / is warm, and for a moment you must think this is glorious, this is what forgiveness feels like, the cold dread of death a fleeting moment, a memory we share .