As Infants Are Painted, I Wear The Skin Of The Morning Star

The traces of future
Will erase the haunting of your past.
Encased in forests of black tongue rot,
The veins in my forehead will burst
And reveal.

Spiraling downward,
You do not know what you are looking for
But you will find it anyways.
In time, time is lost.
Lost in time,
In time you will come to understand.

You were given a key,
But no room for which it is used.
Behind one door, a disease.
Behind another, misguided intent.
It's a confessed disease
That only few live to feel.

Dissect my trust.
Punish my faith.
Twist my trust.
Never more will I feel.
Never more will I know.
Never more will it snow in my head.
Never more will my dead eyes pierce the night.