Of

You're a parasite,
The opposite of life,
But me I can't lose my posture,
A suffering of the least,
I dream of falling,
Of dying,
Of cremation.

A vigorous release,
Into the void,
Purist's who conceal,
The methods by which they deal,
And mold their hybrids,
In the darkest corner of their shed,
Of despise,
Of loathing.

A mechanical moment of disjointed figures,
And while you sleep,
We're underneath the bed,
While you dream,
I'm cradling your head,
But I'm not there,
Outside wavering on a crescent of daffodils,
The damned traitors a weep,
Of frolicking,
Of decay.