---

Ever so coyly the son submits to sleep

this soil is made of flesh.

- A sultry thought, the smell of rotten fruit

Drunkenly black flies haw.

Long abandoned are the rooms where we once dwelled

Contours intrude and rack

Immensely quiet and laden with loss

Oh thorny this hour of grief

Sunken, molten, sprawled in rot

From dusty halls we hear

a frozen gaze

Gone, gone, gone beyond

All together gone

None, none, none, none

Gone beyond

Mutely wafting - a sense of times past

Our weak hands burn and die

Where silver spiders find our eyes