Requiescat Exeunt PAce

(For D.K.)


His doom, he'd long ago released

While still a rank beginner.

He called the Number of the Beast

And asked Him up for dinner.

He did not ask (and so, was lost)

How long his guest might stay.

And now, who knows what it might cost

To have him go away.


Strung out upon Fate's loom, so tight,

No doubt of what's in store.

A walking tomb, a sorry site

Beyond the Killing Floor.

No substance in his sendings,

Now. No meaning to his sound.

While Shiva dances "Endings"

There upon the Burning Ground.


So, give it up, you can't refuse,

And park it where we told you.

A used up, little soul like you's

No credit to who sold you.

And do not dare to haggle price,

You've wished thrice three and more.

My friend, thy name is Merchandise.

So, welcome to the store.


Nobody plans to come to this,

But come to it, they do.

Puppet In The Hands Of Passion

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