The Violet Scryer fighting
And the violent squire crying
The embers slowly dying
And the saint, whispered, lying
Etched and stretched
And laughing to death
At the fools upon the fence
Alighted delighted
From taking a breath
Perched upon the bench
With your deft little scythe
That gutting knife
With words run so quick
The metal, blood slick
Patters in the wind
But the scorpion smile
And paramour wiles
The altar, defiled,
In the name of iron and dust
But the victim trial
And guilty vials
The heart riled
By lips limned with rust?
So doom me damned
Like hourglass sand
The hurricane wings aflutter
Take my hand
The towers manned
To destroy one another
