Rememberance Of Things Past

This sweetness
That surrounded us
And bled with us

We touched it
And it smelt far worse than weeds

I swarm, deserted away
Like glass, warm and as fevers,
I am death…

Witches painted me,
Like the mysteries created me
I were woven into blasphemies

I swarm, deserted away
Like glass, warm, and as fevers,
I am as flame
I am death…
For I, I weave our blasphemies

Witches painted me,
Like the mysteries created me
Like where the poets breathe,
I were woven into blasphemies