This path that we walk upon is the collection of
points that the rain has drawn.

The rhythm section of the storm.

By the moonlight to the gateposts of the forest,

in the snow light, we are bound for the portal of
the pines.

Grey as famine, on this path against our will by
our main sails we're bound to the tempest until
the sea is still.

Which compulsion with this miniature death
tributize?

From behind the walls of my broken coughing tent,
a formal vision,

but I allude to my helpless passion for the
obtuse

When will this night end?

When the lightening finally tears through the
mast of our sinking ship.

All the hopes of the slaves are betrayed by the
grates.

On this coffin of a vessel every note's another
breaking wave.

Revel in this vision, a formal visitation, on the
night with the light from above.

Famished dogs follow slowly as my own paws drag
me to a dock,

to the last plank where I struggle to deny myself
the path that every Pisces craves,

just above the water in the middle of that
man-made lake.

On that pier I turn my eyes from the water like a
mirror of myself in the moonlight,

and I cough for every crater that I could see,

on the surface of that coffin we've come to call
the moon.

Now I wonder if all those judgments that you made
were true.

And the trapdoor of the solstice is thrown wide,
wide open.

Let them all sink, let them all sink through.

The talking, the spinning of a web- its all just
formal ritual.

The burning.

The burning question what do you deserve?

The gazing at a candle to find calm, but we all
know its at the center of the storm.

Oh moon, though pluckest me out, oh moon-

I who have sat by Thebes below the wall and
walked among the lowest of the dead

(to Carthage then I came).

Only the most sacred crater will suit my burial,

only the most sacred choir performs this ritual
dirge.

Perfectly imperfect, like a storm.

By our mane dragged and bound to our grave by our
mane,

to the grave dragged and bound to the tomb by the
scavenger's tooth.