Little grey husk, let the wind remind
you, all those things you were. Let the wind tell you who you are,
the cold bite on your skin, the wind knows what you are. An animal of
the lowest sort, a man, a monster, matters not. You're both, aren't
you? Oh little god look away from yourself, it'll only bring pain.
But the wind will whisper, and make you naked in the cold, the wind
will set you straight.
That breath, those ribs, moving moving
moving. My god how they move. That fleshy thing moves, and comes
close, comes so close to my heart, but she isn't mine, and cannot be.
Yet, the way it moves, oh yes IT, isn't that problem, not a person as
I am, only an IT to move for me. How dark and lost I have become,
even now my soul cries for a shape, not a soul, a shape only, a warm
little shape to make me fit into the puzzle, a husk, a nothing-person
with no soul of their own, yet gods, I am so cold.
A battle, a holy crusade maybe, in my own soul, with my own flesh, that longing lustful creature in me that cares nothing for innocence and wants only to feed, and get fat on his conquest. How many little ones have I destroyed with my gaze? How many are justified in my sin? I don't know what's wrong or right anymore, and the little one pulls me close, and pacifies my dread.
Pacifier, an infantile tool, yet I need it. I need the solace of irresponsibility, and it tugs hard against my flesh. If it could flail me into submission I would let it. All skin peeled away, only muscle and bone left to bleach and wither, only a half thing, a half person, physical only, no spirit. Hail Satan! I have no soul! Jesus Christ on the cross, save my soul! Spill your blood and bathe me in ecstasy!
The wind tells me nothing, and everything. Its caress on my skin condemns and frees. I am a brute, an evil awful terrible thing, yet I am alive and well, ready to breathe the wind into my own diseased lungs.
A battle, a holy crusade maybe, in my own soul, with my own flesh, that longing lustful creature in me that cares nothing for innocence and wants only to feed, and get fat on his conquest. How many little ones have I destroyed with my gaze? How many are justified in my sin? I don't know what's wrong or right anymore, and the little one pulls me close, and pacifies my dread.
Pacifier, an infantile tool, yet I need it. I need the solace of irresponsibility, and it tugs hard against my flesh. If it could flail me into submission I would let it. All skin peeled away, only muscle and bone left to bleach and wither, only a half thing, a half person, physical only, no spirit. Hail Satan! I have no soul! Jesus Christ on the cross, save my soul! Spill your blood and bathe me in ecstasy!
The wind tells me nothing, and everything. Its caress on my skin condemns and frees. I am a brute, an evil awful terrible thing, yet I am alive and well, ready to breathe the wind into my own diseased lungs.
