the saints beget their sins


my hands are black and filthy from
wringing out the shadow ink from
this miserable mind that used to query me so much,
yet to cleanse the frightful stains of
quite a delicate disdain of
this miserable mind that used to query me so much,
the blood-red evil sky that was unnerving to the touch,

should bring to me another
worthless way to dream as such;

my skin is cold and sticky from
absorbing in the soil from
which nothing save the color could be salvaged,
and to rearrange the thought of
how the heart it broke was sought, of
which nothing save the color could be salvaged,
the sacred dirge of echoes even silence shan’t have abridged,

should bring to me another
day of lusting for the bitch;

my dreams are vague and blurry from
this dreadful state of being from
each hour i lament to hear the bells toll for my sleep,
while i focus on the light of
any entity or flight of
fancy as i dare lament to hear the bells toll for my sleep,
the spiteful gorge of thunder rings forever through my keep,

in stifling every sound i make
to show thee why i weep.




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