Nurse to your recent madness,
splitting the furthest mountains,
to hurry along your blessed sunrise,
rolling naked in its enormous temple,
for the rapture where everyone proclaims your greatness.
Taking your hand around theirs,
no rings, vows, or love before,
this button you reach behind their necks,
click and snap your brides and grooms,
running in a panic to sustain your toppling wedding cake.
Give me what I have,
I refuse to seek inside,
settling atop inferiors,
glad for their ignorance,
unaware of the sun and rain,
below my thumb blind and drowning,
as this picture with my huge smile,
draws close those victims for worship,
feeling all the while in place of one’s mind,
promised and betrayed from both extremes,
never comprehending the real fault,
because of my driven fear for tracing any actual blame.
Your bed wrapped with their sheets,
always helplessly freezing underneath,
wondering why everyone else can’t just part,
leave the richness you imagine you deserve,
fits in all directions except for this hollow of the hurricane.
Hero time attracting you desperate,
sucked away from their inner strength,
thankful there is finally some trust for hope,
backed by your spreading of an earthquake,
continually gathered as the faithful fall lower to their knees.
Sharwrong's Song 