This mouth is the heart of a hollow sun.
Made into a bullet, put into a gun.
Forgotten on a shelf,
for when there's need of help.
This right hand is a spoon,
that carves into the moon.
A beautiful paradise,
where all lovers lie.

Your ear is a prison of silence,
made to restrain any willows of madness.
The slow passing of days swallows my lies,
and your dreams die in their sleep,
among the hovering flies.
Your left hand is the moon,
being maimed by a metal harpoon
that builds a hole with every tide,
a sacred sanctuary where souls come to die.