The mares are still dying in his sleep Still infiltrating the most sacred of ideas The blood has already blinded him Everywhere he looks despondence blankets his face
Adhesive glues affection Voices and eyes are my protection Veins in my arms will go to my grave My brain won't stay the same. Landscapes and blueprints, planned in my mind, will be wrinkled over time. Childhood, senility, in-between, can I call this my metamorphosis?
The metal chilled his flesh It's features aren't foreign He knew, He saw, He wept
Discretion laughs over the corpse Envy swims in the blood Process has evaporated