With the tongue of a demon cursed

and hands that are heavy

with a hard heart crushed

by the architecture of sad circumstance,

fences raised with flowering vine

and moats of cleansed water

glowing like liquid metal

links of ever flowing chains

that spring loose from botched existence,

firmament of mirror stars

where my features are a misfire

and the cultures of man fall away

into the realm of unfertilized shadow

and the wings of a trash can spray

decorative ooze on the honored tombs,

under the birth of zombie classes

and the howl of sad parties

clinking glasses in the core

of an expanding prison,

voiced by wires

and disintegrating paradigms

a nipple of barren stone

shaped by desperate lips

mistress of inverted nonexistence

dealing diamond schisms

to the catacombs of once paused pistons.