The Witch’s Sleep

Can’t hold hands with Joan without being spit on by Gilles.
The broken stained glass window is a testament of bleeding wills.
The night is endless as daylight madness in the witches’ sleep.
The golden teeth in rows are burning down 30 feet deep.
Now comes the night that punishes with loveless dreams.
The silver hook picks them off one by one by undoing tin seams.
The Devil knows honor while god rewards treachery and violence.
The Devil knows a lover’s kiss while god’s testament is untenable silence.
The hole in the eye is running with auburn curls of a long lost broken faith.
The tip of my finger runs a gorge in soft, white flesh that carresses a wraith.
We knew the score once sex and bitterness took hold in times of sweetness.
We knew a kiss was the dragon chasing us, taunting us, with it’s incompleteness.
Now burn the blue star into ashes to make a new drug seem worthwhile.
Now burn me into a shadow of childhood with the sweet syringe of your smile.w

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