Ardent Yet Chill And Formal, How I

The Quivering Of Psyche's Butterflies.

A Slight Wind Shakes The Seed-pods My Thoughts Are Spent As The Black Seeds.

Not God With Wine, Nor Death, Nor Hate For A Cry, But God With A Song

Fall The Deep Curtains, Delicate The Weave, Fair The Thread.

I Myself Have Seen The Floating Ships And Nothing Will Ever Be The Same The Shouts, The Harrowing Voices Within The House. I Stand Apart With An Army: My Mind Is Graven With Ships.