Murder is a quickened route For a heart made of silver, Sculpted by ivory hands, To make the wares for meals set in place Upon the table, Where nothing goes to waste. I am, in the eyes of a distorted relative of mine, The man whose love could cross the shallows of Hell To reach the heights of Heaven. A mother, a woman of her sorrows, Holding candles to the masses, Sees me as the pain that truly would not leave her womb. The taste of blood Of an infant, crushed By the stomach of something greater than hunger, Beyond the intentions of survival, To the fates scrawled on the scrolls of Heaven's archives. I do want to love The Heaven, where calls my dove To its place, in the shares of light That do not plot, do not fight Against the spots where we have our sight. I am in love with distaste, as the world named it, So that I may never waste All I have come to face In the arms of angelic curves, lustful craving Of a thousand written poems That receive the burn against their pages, That receive the history of forgotten ages, When scents are received with mouths, Instead of noses, As I use this moment, to collapse.