There’s no limit to my love. Bleed on me and smile, I'll be your friend. Carry your coffin when the sky goes Red. Nothing to be said. Give me your letters of love and labor, for the wise men to savor. I'll send them away with a trusted clockmaker. We can offer our souls to hell. Or pay tribute to mistitled prostitutes who have no skin left to sell. free them from wonder, or being torn asunder. let 'em kiss thunder. Now I can't lie— That rain's gonna come. And when it does, You can either drown or die or except fate for what was No saying Dear God, I can't believe it! You knew this titanic of multitudes would plague the world anew. So graffiti the epitaphs of your forgotten heroes on the hallways of Desolation. Sing a hymn of creation— for it's us that may rot before the new breed is born seeking salvation. I'll dream so close to your mind, It'll intertwine like a fever and cough. We'll go on dreaming 'till the wind that carries the black dust stops— and white horses drink from the divinity trough. When I can't aim you into the sky with my great bow— follow the prostitut, She knows. How to cut a man and break a woman. She is the greater one in a world of Judas. She'll guide you slow. For her body may be dirty, but the artist in her soul still paints holy. She owes no messenger a toll. As for I, I'll keep talking where nobody listens. Sing songs that sound better when whispered before death. Keep the drunks in candlelit taverns, gypsies walking in feverish patterns, though bereft of breath. That’s when we must seek outside the design, so gods may align. I won’t be welcomed to return. So spite my memory in an urn and pray I forget everything I ever learned— those things that taught me limits, the lies I mimic.