Pelt

Worn, the diadem of suffering

Or crown of meaninglessness

Ignites the unending dusk and sets forth the mantle of perversion

From love, thick with blood it is inherited by the many hands of I

Worked tirelessly those folds, lain and draping

To both stifle and coax the growing numbers

Without eternal soul we are so moved by means

Trampled the pelt to new function

So from mire make the fur of benediction

Taken upon our coagulate body to form a great beast

All 7 heads and hands, ten tiny fingers plunged into me

Lest I should ride death reign less and alone

For father who dies on new year's day

To shoot the peaceful prince

To put down a horse with legs that are broken

And mend a broken fence