Wednesday, May 07, 2008
Lighted strips and candle lit,
The savage nights in violent fits,
The wordplay on your heart, it hits,
The suffering of the tortured rips.

That sing a song of sixpence,
A serpent full of vile,
Sink the fangs of death itself,
In hope of reconcile,

That follow lone into unknown,
Of morbid scripts, divine,
That reek of blood and poet's tears,
drunk on aged old wine,

Then blur the lines of fate and free,
To seep into the sanity,
Mess and toil and fumble yet,
The path once sealed, once laid and set,

Now dash a dashing rash of sooth,
That tear a torrent trash in truth,
Spit a splurge of sinister fact,
To blind with bleak brief bout of black.