oh, the lord loves to paint
but he best save that canvas for your technicolor cries;
your damaged desires for a shell manifest in a mirrorproof vest
where you hide from your best
and conspire to caress a malevolent mess
never born, so forlorn, you conform to the cryptic confusion of you
taunting the tyranny of terrible truths
conjuring injury, with purity you jest
offending your oracle with that terrible mess
in your mind, losing light, craving night's
malevolent name, maiden in her voyage to seduce and to spill
and to save that cursed canvas that will color your cries
stripped to the surface by your tedious trials
and errors and endings and questions caress
the shell that I pierce through your mirrorproof vest
why?
look around
could you honestly sputter the delicate sound of a soul that is found?
no, you breathe in and drown in the lack of the up and the down that only the most vicious void in your veins and your voice would allow
and no chain or charred rope or scarred church or cold dream
could bind you as completely as a total emptiness
a mad, crippled chaos in an infinite cocoon
where eternal damnation and bliss eclipse like the sun and the moon
and a frail forever will shrivel too soon
if the lightning splits the sky of the I and the you