Happiness is a wretched prostitute;
in fancy clothes and a painted face
Her seduction is old… oh so very old;
but it tastes fresh on the lips of desire
I want a knife;
of all the knives in the world
The knife with an ivory grip;
and a gleaming edge;
engraved with obscure ruins
Was it really you?
The mother, the equal?
Upon the flowers of Eden,
the first drops of dew?
Virtue is a demon,
which we raise in the name of God
The wizards and their vimen,
while the multitudes stand all awed
I am addicted to scratching the healing wounds;
and revisiting the pain
Once I wanted to be immortal
Experience each pleasure;
life had to offer
And live each dream;
my imagination did proffer
But then I saw;
and then I felt
Each pleasure came with pain;
that dreams were a loss,
and not a gain
Down and down in the deep dark void,
down and down we go
Helpless puppets on unseen strings,
dancing to and fro
What if there is no eternity, heaven or hell?
What if there are no consequences at all?
The guilt is just an extra burden;
and all is always well
Trying to creep and trying to crawl,
within the folds of my pathetic being
Trying to wear and trying to open,
my torn skin and my eyes unseeing
‘Why do you smile,
you young fool?
Why do you laugh?’
The old monk asked