Waiting on the arrow's uncouth edge,
The tinker lays her hopes unto the dead man's weight,
Stalling, in the corner,
While across the yard the smith wipes his brow,
His apron brawned by white hot flickers of fire.
Thus was our village, long ago.
The harlot wails for the stranger,
But I can find no peace there;
The church bells toll for evening succor
But my bed is empty like my mind.
Riddles form on top the clogged fireplace,
Its mantle dimly reflects her bloody breath,
Consumed by the analogies and future hysteria,
Ebbing silently to the foggy street outside.
Brother, come with us!
We march tonight against the dark foe,
Liberty and Reich, emperor and redemption;
We face our own mirrors, O vanity!
Daughter, don't go outside today;
The acid flows freely out there, as it does here,
Nimbling across the attercop's creation,
Devouring foundations and fermenting the grander stage,
Set willfully, desperately, on the isle's fancy.
2 years ago