Untitled 4

Life can mean so little to those who do not care to see what it is
How many arms will it take?
How many lives?
How long the wait?
Who shall tend to me when I am gone?
Who shall light the fire?
A priest of sins, perhaps
The leader of a clergy cloaked in lies
His bed, the only place of freedom and red redemption
The change in the tide does not shake his world
He owns costumes of various colors, each with no meaning
This is the side of the world left for the damned
Dead rivers
Dry beaches
Murdered children in wild hoards
Do not think here
Do not reach here
Worlds upon worlds will fall
You lie shivering and I laugh,
Bored in my fog
Hungry for more
A deathtrap you say
A prize, says I
A release
A crumb of freedom
A dry tear from my eye
You cry for your virtues,
I cry for your sin
Evil, you think me
Fowl, a sheep
A king, you are to me
Another life to take
What have I lost, and where has it gone?
To the only room left standing,
The one you built
I can no sooner leave you, although it is a wish, to fly alone
How often do I cry?
How mute?
Do you crave it?
To answer your ears, yes I do run free
But that means nothing
For all my value, I shall never love
Except or except not,
I only am