HOME | DD

Description
.Like a small pitiful woman,
With grim sorrow laden,
On a dark and cold night,
Who kneels down and cries,

In the Ethereal Gardens of Doom,
On the wretched, accursed floor,
Of the rose-full Necropolis,
Whispering the prayers of her heart.

Your life is the one of a constant hoper,
For a better tomorrow, creature!
Clasping a thin straw to save yourself,
From the waters of Styx pulling you down.

Hoping in the things that are already lost.
Miserably begging The One for more,
Because of your poor scrawny hands.
That is your rigid filth - human!

That is the robot of chemicals,
In which The Great Mother has set you,
Nine months before you were born.
That is your shedding mask of cells.

But you are a far greater challenge,
Aren’t you, oh, being by God touched?!
The light in your flight has the gleam,
Of the gardens in which was conceived.

Now that little puppet seeds a pearl,
In the urn with ashes full,
For The Black Rose of your heart,
Only in death-leavings can thrive.

And it blooms on The Moon,
Under skies of neglect,
Under symbols of injustice,
On which this world is laying.

The boredom of the atmosphere,
Of that numb and half-asleep pulsing,
Of the silence unbroken,
The leaves of The Rose drink and feed.

In the ashes they have found their cradle,
Their best world of drunken slumber.
In which they art create and make you, wet
The Poem-pages with heavy tears and feed them!

Description
.Like a small pitiful woman,
With grim sorrow laden,
On a dark and cold night,
Who kneels down and cries,

In the Ethereal Gardens of Doom,
On the wretched, accursed floor,
Of the rose-full Necropolis,
Whispering the prayers of her heart.

Your life is the one of a constant hoper,
For a better tomorrow, creature!
Clasping a thin straw to save yourself,
From the waters of Styx pulling you down.

Hoping in the things that are already lost.
Miserably begging The One for more,
Because of your poor scrawny hands.
That is your rigid filth - human!

That is the robot of chemicals,
In which The Great Mother has set you,
Nine months before you were born.
That is your shedding mask of cells.

But you are a far greater challenge,
Aren’t you, oh, being by God touched?!
The light in your flight has the gleam,
Of the gardens in which was conceived.

Now that little puppet seeds a pearl,
In the urn with ashes full,
For The Black Rose of your heart,
Only in death-leavings can thrive.

And it blooms on The Moon,
Under skies of neglect,
Under symbols of injustice,
On which this world is laying.

The boredom of the atmosphere,
Of that numb and half-asleep pulsing,
Of the silence unbroken,
The leaves of The Rose drink and feed.

In the ashes they have found their cradle,
Their best world of drunken slumber.
In which they art create and make you, wet
The Poem-pages with heavy tears and feed them!