as if to rid the present and past from all the meanings burdening it down
i strike again, at fall of midnight and kill the dreams and
in the last pangs of attempted sense i fail and fall and fill the glass up to its brim
with distortion and abortion
the child stillborn the night bereft of reason or even scornful passionate treachery...
refreshing sounds of loving grace left nothing but cold echoes withering in time
again and again i strike and strike
until the last young trees fall
the blossom of apple trees, youthful and strong deprived of their scents and lust
i strike again, again at night
when i let it ring and wait against my wills
holding faith to spawns of hope
to hear your voice yet once again and
let your words
penetrate my skin
and kill
my dawn
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