Of the Wound - Christian Death

The cross pulled from his chest

Raises a welt, leaden in every limb

Sleep can watch for seizures

The legless man had directed him to a window

Window like blind eyes probed the mud

The minutes that were left

Ran across his throat stuffed with cotton

And his mouth could hear the distant splashes

A fever and his hand is worse

In the silent film days

He must remain an enigma

They climbed three flights of stairs to the night

Like a hundred pieces of glass

There were numerous outstretched hands throwing shadows

A pair of shadows

Holding the three cornered hat of a cardinal

We move on to snake venoms

Christ would spit on you

And that’s who you remind me of

Beneath a musty green

The wound appears to be dying