And there was my heart On that sleeve drenched in blood, Squeezed to the last drop, Trampled, and pressed in the mud. The chalice was raised; “Take drink!” They all said. Whence my tongue rejected it, They cried, “Lie, thee, with the dead!” And you’ll paint a pretty heaven And turn mortals into gods While you stand and watch me burn Amidst complacent nods. You place filthy hands On my emaciated back. I’ll be what I will be When, alas, you paint me black! And I sank into my skin As you ripped out my tongue. “It’s for your own good,” Was the song to be sung. And, oh, they stoked the fire To set the demons free; Led by the shackles Of their mental slavery. And you’ll paint a pretty heaven And turn mortals into gods While you stand and watch me burn Amids...
Poetry & Other Compositional Oddities