An L.H. Grey/Richard Charles Stevens Dark Fusion
Trent Reznor and Atticus Ross A Familiar Taste
Is it just me.
Who can see
the cold steel approaching.
And very soon to be encroaching.
Have I invited its ice into my spire.
Doth my protest herein request.
Am I glass to see right through.
Falsified by eyes of truth.
Must this knife party commence
Where’s the sense.
Is it too late to repent.
Can’t I play the moot observer
A tumble of weed to concede.
Must I bleed
Not once or twice but thrice in.
Enticing the scarlet sap to reveal
Persuasive is this steel.
One clean motion
Slides in deeper.
has this Reaper
Beat the last my windswept heart
Thumb to rule.
Glass half full.
A deluge of ripest rouge
Chugging train of steaming pain
Bereft of gain
Sword now sheathed.
Comes the gusher.
Everything must go.
Raise a toast
True, Real, Sincere, Crystalline,
Imagery and audio arrangement by L.H. Grey
Prose by Richard Charles Stevens