Descend into blood-stained couches
rouge of a lover's crease
lightly fall upon the dome of the wicked
good for nothin' deceased

delicious end
to a decadent state of mind
tumbled sins
in the river till they're dry

expatriate to remote states
never thumb-sucking humble pie
torment your soul

each disaster multiplies
the distance of your salvation
from the home of the saved
to an outcast of Creation  

trickling from shattered glass
condensing into a transubstantiation
refused and un-passed

Babylon
and your dreams of flight
take the vials of mercy
end your pitiful fight

reign above nothing
but your own wingless pain

distortion of gears
like rust on a mirror
broken by the years
of being actively queer

reposed in your death
victims line the shadow
bear the blood of your cross
no music in your laughter...

no great loss.