By the moon’s dead sight, A cold weather arise...
Through the midst of humanities own desire, To control, annihilate the senses.
Through the wind that brings the North breath, My heart cannot stand the wages of the cosmos.
That slow, ticking ether, of course, I cannot stay, in that of which I won’t play,
Then tell me, say, That thy bones crumbles at his doorstep.
In the pages of antiquities, by day, nay… It’s left at bay, from which I shall return, okay?
Touch me not, sweet cherub, Worry not, my dear at stray,
But ye pray, That it will be as thy soul’s whispering gift, yet, pay.
Lead me not into your light, Until the dawn’s sleigh sleeks away into the darkness.
Where I lay, between eons and they, My heart is there, uproars of heed prey...
Aye, again... yet... again... they betray, yea! See there, my Radha, a cliche!
In the rotten souls of men it decays, And there’s no fairway, to the gateway.
But ye who art by the rhythm of my bass, I cannot stand the thought of gray,
Nor spray or whey, ‘tis the blasphemous tongue it neigh, Jay and bray, they say, keep it at bay,
They pray, to what end shall this be at their play, nay, To this end I must stay, and harvest what the soul can slay, To ever be so clever, and live away in thy heart, yea... (Hope you liked it ☄️)