Like Luther's army
And Abel's brother
I woke to find
Only to smother
An angel fat
At Satan's feast
Where falsehood, childhood
And loneliness ceased.

Delicate like grief
I am rapist, well-healed
Double the echo of silence
Like a dusty dead rose.

The dead of it -
The dread of it
The dead of it -
The dread of it

Contaminate with neglect
Every little heart eventually ends up broken
Shrouded by fog, and hidden by fear.
Asleep in this stumble of autumn
The pain was Calvary
Our living on
Empty.