Every Step We Take On

I Have Often Lost Myself In The Sea, Ears Full Of Newly Cut Flowers, Tongue Full Of Love And Agony.

My Head Is Full Of Fire And Grief And My Tongue Runs Wild, Pierced With Shards Of Glass.

The Moon Carries The Masks Of Meningitis Into Bedrooms, Fills The Wombs Of Pregnant Women With Cold Water And, As Soon As I'm Not Careful, Throws Handfuls Of Grass On My Shoulders.

Everyone Understands The Pain That Accompanies Death, But Genuine Pain Doesn't Live In The Spirit, Nor In The Air, Nor In Our Lives, Nor On These Terraces Of Billowing Smoke. The Genuine Pain That Keeps Everything Awake Is A Tiny, Infinite Burn On The Innocent Eyes Of Other Systems.

At Five In The Afternoon. It Was Exactly Five In The Afternoon. A Boy Brought The White Sheet At Five In The Afternoon. A Frail Of Lime Ready Prepared At Five In The Afternoon. The Rest Was Death, And Death Alone