.

through machines and mechanics

through the industry of my own hand

i have devised djinns and tonics

to gently wash away the sand;

concocted in gold, incense and myrrh,

a most sacred ablution

to provide for all to admire

reborn in such glorious evolution.

—

and though the cold metal can bite

i still tend to the olden hearth

turning darkness into light,

crackling wisdom come as it may

when it is death that i may birth

i weave the threads with sure fingers,

there is nothing that i can say

when only your silence lingers…

—

none may know that which i pray

for my voice is all they hear

and it is lost into the grey,

the blood rushing to my ear;

face full of soot, hands always gloved

desperately trying not to shatter

i have lived, i have laughed, and i have loved

never enough but does it matter?

---

a priest, a doctor, and an orphan walk into a bar…

…

killing is a cycle

pretend like it’s the first time