Muster scarce trails to pursue the final tales
|
I might appeal once quizzed, tested & feeled
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Oh, these cuts-cut-open and observed
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Though barely alive-cautiously preserved
|
|
Molested are my cries
|
Dispersed like transparent rime
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Yet strangely I see trees
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Which assail with stabbing scenes
|
|
Thus maladies & their remedies mix
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So violently they create loathsome tricks
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Labyrinth of angles-so twisted
|
Shape & form the inevitable-
|
|
Through the hexen's mind
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Through the sharpness of her nails
|
Into her grim thoughts he now sails
|
|
Lame and sterile pain
|
Becomes now the most desirable pain
|
Washed to a pond of tears
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Emptied to a valley of the gifted fears
|
Goblets of wisdom dried
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When a witch becomes a pale bride
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To the raving beauty of a doubt
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A garland-old & worn-out
|
|
"Here lies he who never lyed
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Whose skill so often hath been tryed
|
Their prophecies shall still survive
|
And ever keep their name alive"
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|
-----------------
|
When A Witch Becomes A Pale Bride
|
| Bishop Of Hexen |
