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What skin is this skin made of,

A mirrored emblem of tethers and cracks,

Stitched in by the demons of Hell itself?

What water can glide across its surface?

Nothing so delicate anyway, I suppose.

For the one that feels it the most,

The flame dies down –

And their bodies dance in the embers

Until moment comes to set sail

Their soul towards a land of heavenly beasts.

What cells is this mind made of,

Backdrop of death hymnals lining

Its grooves and crevices? A pit of sin

And mockery, the shadows eat each other up

When his love is asleep and the raven awakes.

For the one who thinks too much,

Curtains close on the bedside too soon

Until a heavy cloud of dust befalls them.

And the sheets beneath, all tainted grey

Gulp the liveliness from inside their spine.

A visage appears to slit my raven’s throat

But its eyes linger – linger on the weak spots

So that every savior up there in my mind turns

To the dust that taints my sheet all grey.

It shall not die; it cannot die.