Scattered vermillion rays of hate make love upon the shore
Distant, dusting, dismal days are all the dove ignores
Scrawling hands of lust entwined say sin is all but slain
Crawling sands of wistful time sway then in winds of change
There I stand, there I sit, there I sleep in shame:
For on the bloodied gates of ash is inscribed my name.
Thirteen hours, twelve minutes, seven seconds soon
The butler of the dungeonkeeper severs heads at noon
The portent, portal, portable portion of his mind
Is lost to cost and frost and harder still to find
I peek in to Peking's peak and pitter, placing blame:
For on the muddied grave of yore is entombed my name.
As per request of listlessness and stymied starlets' scowls
The wolverine is smoldering as the violent harlot howls
The death of death and birth of life is boasted by the priest
But standing on the highway side is the reaper of misdeed
Avoiding sight, avoiding sites, I sit and count my stains:
For on the ruddy reaper's scythe is ordained my name.
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