lovely bones of broken hills,
calloused hands and candles of grim,
blurry smokes and voices of thrill:
come hither;
for I wish to kill.

Tales of Blood

Scintillating falls of crooning gold
delving in jars of dissipated cold:
rest my soul in tales of blood,
Before the angels char my name.

Dear December

Pink Blossoms dancing along with the wind,
purple skies following hollow footprints.
Clogged blood flowing down the drain;
dear December, I heard you killed again?