"in the old days
if a poet cursed you,
you'd lie you down beneath the hazel
soon as you were able
for there was no help for you anymore"
"before the cross came
if the words turned against you,
you'd take your own pen
and a willow wand
and die with it
with an empty tongue
for in your mind, you'd already died"
I hold destruction in my hand
my tongue is a weapon of mass destruction
the mind is the only tool of true construction
what I build there can never die
and not even the light can tell me to lie
lamias and lords, martyrs, men and saints
jezebels and queans, viragos and somnificates,
your power comes from
the breath of your life
your sophisms take
your ouevre to your might
liliths and lepers, highwaymen and tykes,
nocuers and night-goers of all manner of stripe,
oneiric osculable youths and maids,
sanguisugents and solivigants alike,
by the heartbeat of the head, you are staid.
there are no orphans
in the old days...
but nothing's changed
I hold chaos in my hand every time I pick up a pen
you hold the power of heaven
in your hands.