Children Of The Corn
There's not a shred of beauty here
Residing in the human flesh
There's only sadness and confusion
And the stench of shit and death
In moments, dull, of self-pity
Of insufficiency and doubt
I catch myself, black-handed thief
Wishing that there'd be someone else
Sometimes ghosts are passing through
The mind, both labyrinth and tomb
And yet it's still unrivalled here
Because all things unborn, only ideas
Are sleeping safely far beyond the horrors of decay
And are thus sacred and immortal, because they never have to fade
Thumbing at times harlf-heartedly
Through flip-books of a lonely child
Old silent movies shake and flicker
In the dark theatre between my thighs
Then countless are the heads and limbs that wildly jump atop
Soulless bodies, unspecific, as they are numberless and cropped
When you close your tired eyes
Does he then join you in this place?
Will he cross over, share your dream,
Or does he vanish on the doorstep, all too quickly disappear?
Alas reality is such a crippled whore
All mortal things are sick and rotten to the core
Only the mind, that frail, but kingly jewel
Gives birth to beauty, love and truth
So why not stay and forever make a home
In the darkness of the only place
You never can belong?
In a land, sublime that some call fantasy
Our only hope of love
Our immortality
There's not a shred of beauty here
Residing in the human flesh
There's only sadness and confusion
And the stench of shit and death
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