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caught when i was still a child |
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by a terrible vision of my Christ |
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and caught in the throat by your signs and tears and goodbyes |
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i picked me up |
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and walked too far |
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with thought of no return |
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and not to see your face again and drowning all my hopes |
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and wishing no longer upon stars |
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believing |
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no longer in moonlight |
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or other dreams or other fields |
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upon all of which we so beautifully play |
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i saw a waste of all |
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and so i put away |
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all talk of death's heads |
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and a little glimpse is a bloodblossomed force |
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and all talk of apocalypse |
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Apocraphon and Apollyon |
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Abaddon |
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all abandoned |
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then i saw in myself the bowl and a gun |
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and the glory that was to come |
