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.