Merry, you may be. 
For I am the flesh in your tounge. 
Create to yourself, images of these glass-eyed figures, and expose to me, your skin - whorish as ever. 
They speak to me, your pores, your veins, in a rush of melancholy. 
In a stream of misantrophy. 
Remove the carpet, so 
I may be united with the shades of these. 
Blind my eyes, still 
I will see - presence, visuality. 
I grant you my pale hands, still 
I will feel - shape, contoures. 
Please leave. 
In me you wont find any pity, as the dog that howls for the light in my eyes - the stench or your nakedness, no smell for a mourner like me. 
So, please leave. 
In here you won¥t find any pity. 
Tour kisses were as hell itself. 
Be silent, for 
I am the flesh in your tounge. 
Only I can wear vast costumes of time, and still be present. "So, hereby I rape thee."