What should have been the End but was not

When you sit, laying on the stone

In the suicide jacket

It's so cold

Like your candle-hot soul

Over which you could hold your hand

And smell, feeling flesh burning

As you've done before

Orange-lighted precious face of beloved

See it shining like the flame, waves of searing heat.

Peel it off, it's so tender

Like the spinning feelings of the spinning, damning wheel.

I am the spikes,

Or I am on the spikes.

The spikes are black sewing needles

Ripping out the blackness.

Oh, oh, rip the paper hear it scream

Name of loving loved, the file on the end

Of the spikes

The file can sharpen for the ripping

Or dull for the lost tears in the letterbox.

You know, the pain leaves white spots on your

Vision, like

Staring at a flame's point.