Incomplete

Pour salt on funeral fires,
manequettes strung by devilish wires,
Oh, they're buried, buried, buried in stone tombs,
like fiends in unmerciful wombs,
and I am their God, their Holy; unholy; fraud.

These masquerades!
Red veins bleeding blue,
incisions etched with rusty blades,
like a faceless moon, burdened with broken tattoos.
Into distant miles felicity fades,
childhood crayons coloring me in ugly shades;
And those children, shattered memories from my past,
play as if the nous could be glassed.

So many bright, lights that cast a shadow,
where is the Sun, I don't know,
a shimmering glade putting on erotic shows;
theatrical limericks my invisible hands can't compose.
Throughout forgotten time I'm driven,
I pray to dead Gods that these Sins were forgiven.
Though this heart is not full of death and deceit,
it still feels like I'm incomplete.

Construct stop signs in dialogue
of a mouth sewed shut,
breathing faces, submerged in frozen fog,
let their tongues reveal the fifteenth cut.
Too bad that, one does not exist,
like a pretty bullet in your fist,
And treading on the edge of reason,
that looks just like the jagged lines scribbled on my wrist,
what are you doing? Looking for treason?

Here comes an undead waiter,
carrying the platters shedding my buffet, full of black sugar and sweet,
And though it seems I'm living for the greater,
I feel like I'm incomplete.