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The spark in his eye was sign he was alive |
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I cleaned his feet to be complete |
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I drank from the wine that came from inside |
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The heart of his meat and the splurge of his sweet |
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That's when the ceremony starts |
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I hold the cup to my breast as he wets my neck |
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There's a book and a blade then to alternate |
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Think of the wind in his eyes and of suicide |
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With poppers blind, it's wedged inside |
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I beg and plead to be underneath |
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The man with bread who wakens me |
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He curls his breath and turns the dead |
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It winds inside to fertilize |
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That's when the ceremony starts |
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With a wreath and a sigh and a veil and a thigh |
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The comfort brief, impure, and sweet |
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To burn incense and break the bread |
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With honey spread, his warmth, his chest |
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He blushes and bleeds, he breathes then feeds |
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It was the spark in his eye that was sign he'd survived |
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That's when the ceremony starts |
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It was the spark in his eye that was sign he'd survived |
