I come with blank slates, To render your fires empty of passion That you have lifted to Heaven. You pass on With eyes that reach to the delicate waves Where there is no storm. Your arms reach To the corpses trailing an avenue, While stench is left behind At the ends of your fingers. You grow thorns for the making of flowers, Wrestling with the clock of time. You drink the passion like liquid light, Bleeding cascades over your eyes. I dream Without screams, Without pride to express Of it. I come with blank slates, To leave you open To newer, better rays Of sunlight not so feeble, Not so lost Amid the fields of thorns That drink From their venomous roots. I come with the antidote Of fires that replace your misery. I empty forests You have called home Of their trees. For you said upon the one, To the next, "I look forward to seeing what shall hex Me, to be broken."