Scream your sins to the endless black nothing.

The bright daggers slash the sky wide open

and soak the ground with nature's blood pouring

in torrents, in crystals of blinding ice.

Do you hear heaven roaring its war song?

It can never wash corrupted hearts clean

but come, try and scrub your wretched hands clean.

Do your broken, bleeding palms mean nothing?

This song is for you but there is no song

raucous enough to suit. Let's rip open

your chest, are those veins or strings of ice

over guilt? Why the frightened tears pouring

pouring, streaming down, staining ground? Pouring -

and I'll never dry them for you, won't clean

what falls from bloodshot yellow eyes of ice.

What remorse falls down? Once you felt nothing.

But I'm not hushed now and let's be open

this is not the first time I've sung this song.

Rumbling voices raise high the awful song

lament of recalled cruelty it's pouring

from the roof of the world with open

wounds and rasping throats, together we clean

the slate for the world so that nothing

is hidden nothing sleeps frigid in ice.

But you're no glacier, no giant of ice!

You're no flickering flame nor earth nor song

of gale as it ruins the town – nothing –

senseless wordy rants from my hands pouring

but I want so much to change the past, clean

the anguish away as old scars tear open.

The storm dies down but the eyes don't open;

around the sprawling body bits of ice

are dyed in the spreading pool, and it's clean,

what could be cleaner than the last of song?

A lullaby in whispered voice pouring

no fury, no questions, it means nothing

and I regret nothing. Not the open

hatred that's pouring, nor the misted ice

in the fading breath of the life wiped clean.