Sung To The Tune Of O Christmas

Even Winter — The Hardest Season, The Most Implacable — Dreams, As February Creeps On, Of The Flame That Will Presently Melt It Away. Everything Tires With Time, And Starts To Seek Some Opposition, To Save It From Itself.

Your Flesh Is Killing Your Spirit. You Have Forsaken Yourself.

Writing About The Unholy Is One Way Of Writing About What Is Sacred.

Leavening The Flat Bread Of What We Know, With The Yeast Of What We Dream May Come To Pass.

Behind Their Eyes The Hope Was Sickening And In Many, Dead. They Lived From Event To Event With A Subtle Terror Of The Gap Between, Filling Up Their Lives With Distractions To Avoid The Emptiness Where Curiosity Should Have Been.