This sweetness
That surrounded us
And bled with us
We touched it
And it smelt far worse than weeds
I swarm, deserted away
Like glass, warm and as fevers,
I am death...
Witches painted me,
Like the mysteries created me
I were woven into blasphemies
I swarm, deserted away
Like glass, warm, and as fevers,
I am as flame
I am death...
For I, I weave our blasphemies
Witches painted me,
Like the mysteries created me
Like where the poets breathe,
I were woven into blasphemies