There is momentum buried in the act,
Which drags us, frenzied, gasping, to a close �
Provides us, all unasked for, with the fact
That every lover, satiated, knows:
The flame that burns the part destroys the whole.

We cannot fill the void. We cannot prove
That substance can be coupled with the soul...
Behind that shadow, only shadows move.

Beneath the razored nail, beneath the fire,
Beneath the chains where life runs white and red...
Beneath the mask of pain is strange desire;
Beneath that shadow, only shadows tread.

We know not who we are, and still we dance...
Repent, exhale... and leave all else to chance.