The days do cut my eyes away
and take my breath for an honest day.
They save it for a long time when,
the flowers die and the night is spent.
And when they pierce my ears with Merlin’s drum
a magical lie,
the sorcerers gun,
I will not let my wrists be bound,
cut to the bone,
thrust to the ground.
Stand I will,
against the floods of mind.
The cloudy little whispers
in the cloud of Satan’s shrine.
And the night does dwell on a dose of rum,
the secret cure to a poison sun.
For the day has wrought its dirty deeds,
and given life to blackened seeds.
And what trees they become,
I cannot say,
for my eyes must turn and look away.
And when butterflies dance on a broken dawn
and the light has scattered into streams of orange
the sun will sob until it’s final cries have set
and the moon will laugh the night away……