And I've reposed all my worries

onto thy perfect land of feelings

this chamber made by treasures, bygone

pillaged beauties, just deficient glamour



Con the words, the ones sculptured on me

on my tongue's dry carpet, on my bloody actions

I cut it fine to run away from temptation

for I spelled my promises and you spelled your

curses



In the flush of victory you fly

but, beware, foible just means nothing to me

even the flowery poems we somehow hear

perfectly hide thorns, thorns you might never see