I don't believe in whispers, space or time
life is a lie but it's euporic and deep,
bathed in enlightened sorrow, fast asleep.
If I don't see the sadness, is that madness?
Darkness feeds the spiders, light berates them:
aspirations of fear in the corners of eyes,
I can't prove it's there, my skin still crawls.
A lover, a liar, sight's chagrin's to swoon and stall.
I know I'm shy but I know it's not the people,
it's the eyes, I can't tell if they're dead or alive.
I think they'd taste salty but they look sweet to me;
wielding fangs, coveting daggers, I wonder truly,
if one does what it must, must it enjoy?
Beauty is subjective and proliferation is cruel;
death becomes sweet when this life defeats.
I won't say a word, I won't say a word,
alone in an empty room the spider eludes.
When do you sleep, take time to weep?
I bleed to feed - terror is strong and deep.
Murder and appetite can't be quite the same?
Taking life? I'm unthreatened. Taking life,
I've done it before. Giving life? Not once.
I feel shame and more, giving life, not once.
They shine and sparkle bright at night,
void snowflakes that own a violent pulse.
Were I born much smaller hope wouldn't survive,
you'd keep me fresh inside until hunger arrived.
I believe in the heartache the world bestows
to a spider alone, to a spider murdered,
feared, yet battered, confused and splattered.
I would love them if I could, I think it matters.
There's only two voices and they taste like a million.
I'm all alone, I'm not alone, no disdain for vermilion.
Your voice is my own, a heavy-hearted soul biopsy.
Clarity ebbs and wanes like rivers upon a star.
