Mutter me your absence,
deliver me your wrath;
destroy the chains to your ancient existence,
your culture is drowning.
Hang on to every word
so the silence doesn’t mutate you.
A king only picks fine art;
the tyrant leader is a lover
of delicate oil on canvas.
The demon art, she lost me
in a wave of carrion dust.
She hung me on this earth,
she lost me on this earth.
Lakes turning rusty,
seas turn to taste the relics blood.
Her severed rows of fishing lines feed me now
the bread crumb trail has ended.
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