born into this world,
without a thought of breath,
i knew not of love,
the essential death.
i liked to smile.
i would stay for a while.
i would imagine conflict and
portray it through the form of plastic,
nothing special, nothing drastic.
i saw the world as if all was new,
nothing haunted me; nothing i knew.
such a virgin mind, curiously stricken
i was like fire licking the air.

i don't believe we've met.
i am The Creature.
you look like you've seen death,
such a common feature.

i know you're scared, i know you're scarred.
don't let your soul feel the cold chrome of bars.

i have seen despair in its very wake.
my eyes they wonder, my hands they quake.

i am but a caterpillar, in it's cocoon.
someday i'll prosper, someday soon.
at the hour of noon, you i will swoon.
like the forgotten sun, shining upon
The Moon, like a sudden memory.
like a red balloon, reaching for The Moon.

can you hear that? that sound.
the sound that marks the absence
of itself all around,
as if the black night is dead.
as if sound itself beckons eagerly,
begging for you, you of all,
to sing sound,
even as you lie in bed.

i have seen darkness in its very wake.
my eyes they wonder, my hands they quake.

i search the invisible black for an answer, a key,
a salvation bent on destruction, to set my spirit free.
whipser a sound; feed the air.
create the flame; watch it glare.
poison your eyes with light, because
only those who are blind use their sight.

please, do not follow me.
i am lost in a forgotten sea.

i am but a parasite, feasting on the flame:
the liberator of dark, the sultan of untame.
scream my name. let me be your claim.
like a white feather, swiftly molding to the weather,
with gravity to blame, but it's all the same,
like a sudden shame.

and as that white feather swiftly molding to the weather
waves to the red balloon reaching for The Moon,
like a mile of fringed leather, at the black hour of noon,
i will look up and smile, and probably stay for a while,
basking in that sudden memory
that was my life.
like fire licking the air.

i don't believe we've met.
i am The Creature.
you look like you've seen death,
such a common feature.

can you smell that? that smell.
the smell that marks the abundance
of itself as it dwells.
the smell of seduction. the smell of junction.
the scent of sex. the aroma, so perplex.
as if she, the source of the scent,
as if she was meant, oh so meant,
to be, like a leaf on a tree,
silhouetted by the sparkling sea:
an adumbration of you and me.

she is but a cage, of me it has hold,
ceasing insanity to unfold,
the bars grow old, the chains grow mold.
like the trees, with meaningful leaves,
a truth untold, like a sudden arousal.
like her flowing black hair of gold,
she dances naked in the moonlit cold.

please, don't forget me.
i need you're touch in order to be.

and as that white feather swiftly molding to the weather
waves to the red balloon reaching for The Moon
that escaped the gentle hand of
the girl that dances naked in the moonlit cold
like a mille of fringed leather, at the black hour of noon,
tangled in locks of flowing black hair of gold,
i will look up and smile, and probably stay for a while,
basking in her gorgeous imagery, that sudden memory,
that was my life.
like fire licking the air.