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Sunday, October 26, 2003
Morbidal Gargoyle that Speaks to Me.
i had a stonehedge
where i axed my name
in the swirly snow
that fell in the winter air
gragoyle
my morbidal friend
that is cold
won't you love me
it is so
won't you love me
it's so
won't you love
me it's so.
winter is coming
in the wake of fall
and the bears aren't sleeping
in the caves at all
and all that's left
is the last leaf that fell
but there's too many
so i can't tell
grim right
sleep tight
grim right sleep tight
goodnight.
there's sun in his eyes
that falls over his hair
that's grey in the snowytop
in the wintery night.
he stares to the skyline
and at a cloud
that's over his eyes
and in his face.
he can't see it
he can't
see it
can't see
it can't
see it.
he gapes. he blinks.
he grieves. he sighs.
lovely love lovely lies.
snow, cold as stone
clinging to rooftops, and clinging
in a girl's messy hair as she walks
down the street below the snowytop,
below my mobridal gargoyle's lair,
perching, waiting.
it's as certain as shade.
as certain as eyes.
all midnight eyes, all shut closed and tight.
the windows are dying. the light is dying.
his heart is dying
turning to stone.
his heart is dying turning to stone
his heart is dying turning to stone.
it's dying, as he sits alone, onhis snowytop,
as fall is eaten wide-eyed and moth.
like blood all clot.
two-sneered, winter's jaws, the sloth.
the neverdying, neverliving, neverending caressed froth.
twisting bows of snow and cold,
cold as stone, snow as bold, tenacious.
atrocious, tenacious, sticky on their tongues.
dieing an irong lung,
beating heart to the sun,
brushing away the bloodless splatter,
the endless fragorent clamor,
the endless spinning earth's laughter.
like a hand, brushing a stick, and finding a thorn
being reborn, and rebirthed in a storm.
snowy dorm for the warm.
hypothermia poisoning a brain
an endless shock of rain,
snowing in the drain
of an old wagon's wheel.
winter hath come.
morbidal gargoyle, snowytop,
tight and taut, and as cold as mother's hell.
as cold as heaven's purgatorial heart.
as tart as an opening wound's part.
winter hath come,
pumpkins hath died,
the souls hath lied.
season's morbid side.
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