The cold wind blew,
Under the black leaves, long branches,
While I bequeath my soul
To the grass beneath;Â
Weeping.
My eyes are cursed;
Stolen;
By the sin,
Which trilled heavily.
It’s hunger devoured me.
The décor it painted,
The blue linen cloth,
Tied to a rotten tree.
I heard an ashy voice,
By the grumpy, old, rotten tree,
Who told me the tale of yore,
About a Cherub, which died in a mother’s hand.
O’ how the mother swung her heart,
The heart;
Placed in the cloth,
Back and forth; back and forth.
And honey which poured down the bark,
Gave life to the living souls.
But the season changed,Â
And down came the cruel winter,
Stealing the heart.
The Cherub; which died
In the mother’s hand.
The mother, took the cloth.
And hanged herself.
She died while smiling,
While anguish crippled in hire-self.
And now the tears flow,
Instead of the delicious honey.
It’s miserable stink;
Sorrowful look;
And venomous taste.
I stood in silence,
Breathing guilt;
Clinging to humanity.
While I stood there,
I died standing.
As I sit on this ornate throne
Placed in thou dreams
As I, The Penitent One in Sleeplessness
Am the New Father and The Last Son of The Miracle.
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