The Amenta - Solipschism

Refused, through the bough
And the Godhead is lopped
From the straining trunk.
From the knots of fingers.

I've fed you plates
Piled high with my lights.
You cough, you laugh
You leave.
The mind is a prism
And words, rain blown
And bruised on the bars.
Deadman walking.
An affectation of effluence
Shemfully painting sagas on skin.

I've fed you plates
Piled high with my lights.
You cough, you laugh
You leave.
Month by creaking month
A nail width closer to Christage.
The constant in the chaos
The I in every storm.
Drawn together, one of
Life's sicker tricks.
Sever the heartstring
And run raw in the world.

I've fed you plates
Piled high with my lights.
You cough, you laugh
You leave.
In every Dreamhome
A Hearth ache.
In every Dreamhome
A heart attack.

A shamejawed,
gutsucked silouhette
I've fed you.