lovely bones of broken hills,

calloused hands and candles of grim,

blurry smokes and voices of thrill:

come hither;

for I wish to kill.

Scintillating falls of crooning gold

delving in jars of dissipated cold:

rest my soul in tales of blood,

Before the angels char my name.

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?