at least, it’s what you most expected,
these graves bloom and devour my sight:
the kingdom ethereal and material;
the witching year.
the world behind the world.
alone you’ll arrive and together we leave,
we pour ourselves a glass we cannot bear to drink.
we slide into the world incredible,
where air runs thicker than blood,
we embalm our ritual eyes,
that sink quicker than stones,
and cry in the winter, beating our chests,
“i am false, i am false”.
but O, what can we say we know,
instead of dying young, let us stay forever old.