|
The spark in his eye was sign he was alive |
|
I cleaned his feet to be complete |
|
I drank from the wine that came from inside |
|
The heart of his meat and the splurge of his sweet |
|
That's when the ceremony starts |
|
I hold the cup to my breast as he wets my neck |
|
There's a book and a blade then to alternate |
|
Think of the wind in his eyes and of suicide |
|
With poppers blind, it's wedged inside |
|
I beg and plead to be underneath |
|
The man with bread who wakens me |
|
He curls his breath and turns the dead |
|
It winds inside to fertilize |
|
That's when the ceremony starts |
|
With a wreath and a sigh and a veil and a thigh |
|
The comfort brief, impure, and sweet |
|
To burn incense and break the bread |
|
With honey spread, his warmth, his chest |
|
He blushes and bleeds, he breathes then feeds |
|
It was the spark in his eye that was sign he'd survived |
|
That's when the ceremony starts |
|
It was the spark in his eye that was sign he'd survived |