and keeping secrets under shower water that never wash clean;
it hides from fate, never ends, waits for revelations and the death of prophets,
looking to murder love. It will grab you from behind and choke the living hell out of you;
A holy or lost art so cruel it destroyed virgin wind looking for clouds,
the image-drunk hero in his arms; let me say it is love, but never beauty.
We have created heroes evil as killers, loved the lie, and call it God;
this is the history of dying for what we never really had, thinking it would save us.
Nothing was there, nothing I could see, just miles and miles of sun sick hell.
Everywhere they are shooting people, Rhythm and blues hang Christ
and scream from men that have grown in towns quieter than the colors of the flag;
the beautiful people tear down cathedrals and will murder my legend;
it will be beautiful.
I learned my lesson well; the tired wrecks of cities die like clouds,
whose deaths are legends to the loud and drunk. It’s not so easy to go home;
the streets all swing real crazy and scream, refusing to inhale.
As for me, I think heaven left long ago; there is nothing to do;
cry and die and throw your ghost into somebody else’s fingers.