A child of winter, a son of the morning,
His pale, sunken eyes speak horrors, nameless things
Resplendent in the red light of the dying sun,
He swoops down on crooked, blackened wings.
He throws back his head, glories in his perfection,
But inside him there's something vile,
God's temple is defiled,
He won't reconcile.
Behold! He bears the light of a thousand suns,
An ecstasy of power, of glory,
It ripples across his skin, it wraps around his neck,
A frenzy of poetry, fireworks, art, and sex.
Symmetry, subsurface scattering, worlds of skin,
Ecstasy, the way the blood spills out,
The body, the most beautiful work of art,
A slurry, fountain of blood and flesh.
He confronted his fear, he drowned it in a world of rum,
But he's still afraid, it's still inside him, and he knows what's to come,
The hell inside him, the empty hole that can never be filled,
Slur all those words together, thoughts seep through the cracks, they spilled
A child of winter, a son of the morning,
His pale, sunken eyes speak horrors, nameless things
Resplendent in the red light of the dying sun,
He swoops down on crooked, blackened wings.