Stole the gold of prose
And the fingers sore
The well kept hold on no form
No form of dance and culture
The joy of pain
In manic need to perform, no form
The shame of prison
And vain with taste
Devoid of voice still performs, no form
These ancient soundscapes
Of doubt and love
Machine in feral, no form
How cunning the birth of sense
Lingering, formed in accident
Pale, undressed, confronts the cane
Leaves in awe of growing pains
Cunning, pierced and foul
Cunning, shaped in stone
Cunning, birthed in moan
Cunning, bought and sold
Blessed rose in rope burns
How cunning the birth of sense
Lingering, formed in accident
Pale, undressed, confronts the cane
Leaves in awe of growing pains
Cunning, pierced and foul
Cunning, shaped in stone
Cunning, birthed in moan
Cunning, bought and sold