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Burnt by ivory dust |
|
holds his blades like they're sharp |
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He lived his life in a series of bows |
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made his incision and laid himself down |
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bulbs in the darkness, light up the tree |
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a mixture of crimson and perfect evergreen |
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he folded his hands with a white covered cross |
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asked for forgiveness, but whats God really lost |
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then died. |
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his children found him late after |
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strewn by their gifts |
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like a pile of rotted fruit |
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imagine their mother, with a ghost by her side |
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but lays with another, where her new one resides |
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A note in their stocking too late to read |
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he'd left them a gift not on christmas but its eve |
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He'd punctured his wrist with an object so blunt |
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and not God's forgiveness, but that which of his son |
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He lays there, impatient, with tears in his eyes. |
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they're blood red and christmas green |
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blood red and christmas in his eyes |
