O, Come thee, hand of Death, and wash from me
This stain of thinking. Purge the grime and rust,
The grease and filth of my still body. Come,
You monster! Free me from my own dependence,
And take from me the thought that a thought matters,
And free me from the notion that this means.
O, Death, please take, please hand of Death remove
This love for something that does not exist.
And yes, I know the hand I call is mine.
And yes, these fingers clack the instrument
Of my destruction, washed with brown and fear
And sentiment. I know I've given life
To that which shall consume me
No comments:
Post a Comment