Worship,

You will worship

At the cemetery cross of a mother

Who couldn't spare you a tear

Even if you were her own.


Worship,

Worship,


You will hang yourself

From the cross

& Not even God

Or Bohumil himself

Could spare a tear

For one as small as you.


Worship,

Worship,


The razor blades you've sewn

Inside your sleeves

Will be forgotten

Till the next bitter winter

Will make your blood drip

And fall


Worship

You must worship

Till the bleeding stops

Till your heart beats slowly

Worship

Till they tell you

You aren't as pure as you should be

Worship

And admit that maybe

You're inclined to tragedy

The Melody within
No longer reverberates
That beauteous love song
O, that Bountiful Ballad but
My heart sings a brand new paean:
One of creation,
Of Wisdom,
Of freedom,
Of might,
Of consecration.

Yes, sometimes solitude
Heightens our spiritual senses,
Reawakens our provident defences;
O, denudes our vexations.
Know the Sacral Light
Absolving every deathly pang
Is found
By Dovening Divine Aether,
And summoning the Silver Wings
Of the Holy Dove.

Movement is neither peripheral
Nor internal;
Pain is neither deserved
Nor natural;
All things
Are just as they appear
To be
An evident demonstration
Of a
Higher fidelity.

Matter reverberates upon the
Molecular level;
We are, more
Than flesh, bone, and marrow;
We are,
Life, Love, and Liberty;
We are, a
Breathing Song
That exhales edification, inspiration,
Contemplations, and excogitations.

(Se' lah)