Fetish

5/17/15

The dead form an army underground

Tho you can’t see them, you can hear their sound

And I wonder what they’re waiting for

The walls that divide us, I never adore

For death is a friend following close

There’s a devil’s fuck for every wanting whore

I feel your warmth against the broken door

But you don’t know what you’re asking for

No. You don’t know what you’re asking for

You have the machine and I have its power

I hold the thorn, you carry its flower

Sometimes I see your eyes in the mirror

Your hands reaching up from freezing water
Like a statue of ivory standing tall in harsh wave 

Where once there was substance,

Now there is a grave

Nothing is a hole

Your touch is a knife of ice into my soul

Punishers will seek that which we lack

I evade my sentence in never turning back