(There Existed an Addiction to Blood, Track 12)
The fact is, you are just a chalice
for the ritual of melding truths.
Your ribcage holds them badly,
but you are.
Because of this, the death
your poorer historians have stored to ink
is never the true suffering.
It is always forgetfulness.
Don’t even let them offer you the instability
of your walls of thought.
You can let each fear of forgetting
fall against your tongue crimson like wine,
like nebula dervishes rich with dreams,
and in you is a chalice for them all,
and you go running toward the fear
and drink deep,
get lost in them,
you love the way control fades.
You are less fragile, then,
than you suppose.