His hands are shaking, he's day dreaming a tragedy.
I'm losing sensibility.
The violet backdrop, it ebbs, the demons overhead this night,
they burn like fireflies- steadily mad.
The churches are screeching,
He is of ichthyosis. Patches of roses in the fire,
their thorns bittersweet,
and deities collapse.
The world is convulsing.
He'll thrive in the lapse left behind.
Illuminated rows of church seats align-
The haunted dances on the stage are
the setting of the perfect "park".
It's marking down his chosen days.
The ringmaster's daughter,
she speaks of his dead father.
In the mines, he was charring the calm.
And his elegance is tranquil;
Aforethought insincere.
Battered more than once
for pleasure and for fear.
To dance a night is existence.
Because God needs the money,
and the world- it's gone straight to Hell.
My mind isn't quite working anymore.
No, it never really did.
I can feel them crawling on my eyes and the bleeding is blinding,
but I can't rip them off and I'm crying their legs and their heads are chattering like speakers
sweating and chanting iniquity- meshing-insanity festering in the back of my ribs.
The ringmaster's daughter let him down.
He's the burden, the defect.