The little girl in the pool next door
is shouting, “Leave my brother alone.”
Everyone knows it’s not the heat, it’s the humidity,
but we’re choking on all this light.
Love is a subject
glorified by apparitions
by lengthly ghosts passer-bye’s
good-bye hosts. Love was not
Cohen’s victory march, rather
On the slow rise
your words are as
knives or butterflies.
Still sleeping in a
daydream, a walk-about
Trail of replicas to my
Bound in leather dyed in midnight,
A wax seal upon it’s cover,
Red, and once can’t help but think,
It might be made from blood.
Inside, sprawled out through symbols,
Writen through languages that span the globe,
Knowledge and power is contained,
It does not let one overthrow nations,
But overthrow people,
Their hearts and minds enchained to you,
Or allows you to call,
Those who can bring you that power.
We contain our sins, vices, and dark wants behind a lock,
And it is an ink and paper skeleton key,
And draw out every lust,
To stain one’s mind black,
To help tie in the puppet strings,
That let’s them be pulled about by you,
And gives you the power we all crave.
A book transcribed by the damned,
A book authored by demons,
To give the human Desire form,
For even the demons know that nothing is more sinister,
Than what lies in the hearts of man.