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Flying lord, God of all times. |
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Swept in rage as we left it. |
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As its gold whips our minds. |
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And fierce tongue scratches our eyes. |
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Wake me from my sleep, |
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And lead me gently (on my way) to hell. |
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And it would rain in waves. |
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Or in clouds of ashes. |
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And wash off all taste. |
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And creep into my spotless heart. |
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My tears in a tin box. |
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Bubbling, seething, covered with flies. |
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Its grace leaves me tender. |
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My eyes, wrapped in plastic. |
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Swarming, curdling, wretched inside |
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Its beauty makes me blind. |
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The sky turns vaster. |
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It rains in flesh. |
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Its elegance wakes my slumber. |
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And turns me into hate. |
