April night-time,
And we run like muscles through the stagnant nodes of man.
Blood-bridges lean towards the gaping synapses
To disarm the stars within us.

Hornet Hive-dark,
Severed wings in vainless beating
Buzz out from an inferno of fangs
To disarm the stars within us.

We should have been
So much more by now,
Too dead inside
To even know the guilt.

Waning Ring-deep,
A halo of thorns
Sips now down in the sheets of sharp silver
To disarm the stars within us.

We should have been
So much more by now,
Too dead inside
To even know the guilt.