The RitualThe Paris of your province You clearly called it home Her streets, they called me stranger Beneath a sheet of chromeThe Ritual
For years you’ve been a hermit Waiting for this day You’ll resurrect through ashes Of History’s Highway
You spoke and gave me shelter I laughed and kissed your cheek Cherished were the rituals Of which lovers never speak
The Family TombWill you take the fall For one man’s peace, The peace that can cripple, corrupt and corrode? Please, my love, do not take the long road.The Family Tomb
Will you take the fall For a valley of dust, The valley that will die, decay and depress? Oh dear father, what have you to confess?
Will you take the fall
For our ancient sea, The sea that will ripple, ruin and rust? Oh sister, what are we to do in this age of lust?
Will you take command
Of our mother's muse, The muse of prayer, prose and power?
Dear Daughter this is your strength, gift and great
Mistress MoragMy mother took me and we fled our home We searched for a place by the sea Place where the water would echoMistress Morag
A place where I’d die peacefully
My mother met a very old lady She was similar to the Crone Wise and wrinkled she sang to me to sleep Her grey eyes were set like stone
After desperate days and lonely nights My mother prayed and she said ”My boy he can no longer walk. Crone, he lies sick in his bed.”
The old Crone did not say a word to her She simply turned her back My mother yelled “Why don’t you answer me?” “Its faith and reli
SeveranceWith every drop of blood that falls from your cigarette, you flash against the wall, your wounded silhouette.Severance
I can feel your breath.
Your presence, all too near. Spirits mix, souls collide as you nibble on my ear.
Forgotten scars tare apart this hallway. Your body, so slashed and torn, the floor beneath me turning red, your mind, so weary, so worn.
The walls washed white with another life, love has defeated the grave divine. Your shadow quivers on the floor, solitude is mine.
Victorian BrideGuilty Until Proven InnocentMy own slice of Salem, My own practice for law: How to prove myself innocent. What others say they saw.Guilty Until Proven Innocent
The trial not yet done, The verdict's handed down. Condemned, no chance for defense; Accused by jury's frown.
Envy calls me guilty. My own innocence is true. Though baseless, their lies are believed; My defenders are few.
Yet guilty! they all cry. They do not let me speak. I have done nothing to harm them But profess Myself weak.
But I do not object, For nothing can be done. There's no audience to hear me,
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Sea conmigo, me da fuerza y amor, me levanta alto como la paloma.
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~litNEWS, help us keep you informed.
may Beelzebub's scrotum rest firmly on your chin
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please excuse my split personality
*Dark-Arts-Asylum Registered Visitor Badge # 43
don't you like my 3 dots ...
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