• All goes well at first,
    Then the eyes have had it with the miasma.
    Blistered palms and a dozen over-populated hearses,
    A steadily raising body count actualized the problem.

    Sit out this century in a jail of empty stomachs,
    Worthless promises echo in your chamber,
    Like a Gregorian Chant with such monotony.
    Kill your God and everything else is history.

    Is he the one who did this,
    Or are you the one with an infinity of secrets?
    Like a drowning pool this cracked mirror reflects
    Faulty images fragmented into oblivion.

    Talk of resolving leaves you rushing,
    Run to your parlor with the clash of black
    Stunning, you in a dead heap on the floor.

    A strange accent and dialect of slurred
    Sounds left to make up new words.
    Did you practice it or leave it to the alcohol you consumed?

    Just lie to me,
    tell me you'll at least stay the night.