Hush, my darling.
Sleep amongst damp grass and the small creatures which crawl through it.
The Moon bathes you in milky light, so hush, your voice blocks out the screaming in my head.
Rest now, as light bends my fingertips back into a familar place.
I would not harm you, if you worshipped me.
But you are tender now.
Asleep and we are alone in this torture garden.
Why do you cry in your sleep, my handsome?
Oh, the angush is absent in my soul.
The pain you feel is deafening to the dead flowers under your head.
My eyes form cataracts of ice to murder the sight.
I can not feel for you, more than the rain can feel the hills, on which it falls.
Do not fidget in your slumber, my dear.
I hate to see the way your flesh turns and twists.
In this thorn bush of malice, be still.
The leaves from shedding trees sleep upon the warmth of your skin.
They bury in you a blanket of protection, but nature can not save you from my hate.
Which drips from my chin and hits the sinking mud beneath my feet.
Standing above you.
The night air runs it's fingers through my hair.
As the thick, rotting smell of Summer, places a vice around my neck.
Bound, I am, to the soft innocence of ignorance.
If only you knew how precious you look when you sleep.
Your breathing is steady.
Softly your chest rises and falls with each breath, like waves of an ocean.
Crashing upon my rocky, black shore.
Each breath, kills a nerve, and snaps a branch from the trees above us.
You are forbidden fruit with a hard, bitter core.
To taste of you would send the mouths of hunger to starvation.
To have you is posion, a pesticide, which eats away at the faces of small animals.
The winds grow heavier and shakes a nearby fence.
Wind-chimes sound off like sirens in the distance.
This song, just for you and I.
If only you were awake to dance with me one last time.
The Moon is setting and my ax is rising.
Father Time has come.
Mother Nature is singing your funeral song.
As your blood nourishes the cruel Earth.
-sickenkitten, 2006
Sleep amongst damp grass and the small creatures which crawl through it.
The Moon bathes you in milky light, so hush, your voice blocks out the screaming in my head.
Rest now, as light bends my fingertips back into a familar place.
I would not harm you, if you worshipped me.
But you are tender now.
Asleep and we are alone in this torture garden.
Why do you cry in your sleep, my handsome?
Oh, the angush is absent in my soul.
The pain you feel is deafening to the dead flowers under your head.
My eyes form cataracts of ice to murder the sight.
I can not feel for you, more than the rain can feel the hills, on which it falls.
Do not fidget in your slumber, my dear.
I hate to see the way your flesh turns and twists.
In this thorn bush of malice, be still.
The leaves from shedding trees sleep upon the warmth of your skin.
They bury in you a blanket of protection, but nature can not save you from my hate.
Which drips from my chin and hits the sinking mud beneath my feet.
Standing above you.
The night air runs it's fingers through my hair.
As the thick, rotting smell of Summer, places a vice around my neck.
Bound, I am, to the soft innocence of ignorance.
If only you knew how precious you look when you sleep.
Your breathing is steady.
Softly your chest rises and falls with each breath, like waves of an ocean.
Crashing upon my rocky, black shore.
Each breath, kills a nerve, and snaps a branch from the trees above us.
You are forbidden fruit with a hard, bitter core.
To taste of you would send the mouths of hunger to starvation.
To have you is posion, a pesticide, which eats away at the faces of small animals.
The winds grow heavier and shakes a nearby fence.
Wind-chimes sound off like sirens in the distance.
This song, just for you and I.
If only you were awake to dance with me one last time.
The Moon is setting and my ax is rising.
Father Time has come.
Mother Nature is singing your funeral song.
As your blood nourishes the cruel Earth.
-sickenkitten, 2006