Merry, you may be.
For I am the flesh in your tounge.
Create to yourself, images of these
And expose to me, your skin -
Whorish as ever.
They speak to me, your pores, your veins,
In a rush of melancholy.
In a stream of misantrophy.
Remove the carpet, so I may be
United with the shades of these.
Blind my eyes,
Still I will see - presence, visuality.
I grant you my pale hands,
Still I will feel - shape, contoures.
In me you wont find any pity,
As the dog that howls for the light in my eyes -
The stench or your nakedness, no smell for a mourner like me.
So, please leave.
In here you won't find any pity.
Tour kisses were as hell itself.
Be silent, for I am the flesh in your tounge.
Only I can wear vast costumes of time, and still be present.
"So, hereby I rape thee."