Crystalmoors

I do profound the death,
Inside which it weakens me.
Not mine acting does it cause
...it is in fear.
But blindness thou see in every mortal -
dreamlike thought,
including in me.

Beheaded I am,
greedly waiting besides thine grotesque being.
For a saviour of this soul
had it even ever been?

Thou all art but blind fruits,
in mine created bowl
Only feeling my hunger to thine flesh,
as stars have come old.
It Is a desolate night in me again,
so I was told.
Carried I did the shadow alone,
to these crystalmoors.
With a bare arm and drop of blood
...as I do recall.

My reasons for vast profoundness,
are deepen far away.
By the shimmering light of the "ill-face"
I do stand pale and tall...
Wandering about in darkness questioning myself
Was there ever a day at all?