An empty room where flies have had fun
Feasting on lungs separate from cabinets
Where we have kept our sex dead on arrival
Torture was commonplace; the massacre
That which bore a dimple on your face
Or was it a knuckle to my head, masochist
Cried at the sonatas of our youth, purple lips
Bruises left over from what could have been
Gardening after-hours picking at skin
Nature my darling is the bed where we lay
Counting sheep whiles love dies weeping
Is it art you want? Is it Venus of Urbino?
Could this sacrifice possess us ‘til eternity?
Lose our lives for the sake of stardom
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