| April night-tyme and we run like muscles | |
| Through the stagnant nodes of man | |
| Blood-bridges lean towards the gaping synapses | |
| To disarms the stars within us | |
| Hornet hive-dark | |
| Severed wings in vainless beating | |
| Buzz out from inferno of fangs | |
| To disarms the stars within us | |
| We should have been | |
| So much more by now | |
| Too dead inside | |
| To even know the guilt | |
| Waning ring-deep a halo of thorns | |
| Sips now down in | |
| The sheets of sharp silver | |
| To disarm the star within us |
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