It's the ice, isn't it
You packed your mouth full of snow you
Shine like white gold
Breaking sunlight like a crystal would
This is all metal angles
Grinding black against bone
Stone on flesh
Steel on teeth
A french kiss
Lost in substance
I've got knives for feathers
You pet me the wrong way
I'll cut your fingers
The death of art
I'm at the helm
A crystal tick or a shining wreathe of wheat
Oh, saint on me
But when you smile it's a technicolour empire
Dripping in limestone
And bleeding with Persian silk
I've traded my first born son
For just one amber sheaf of wheat
I met a costume in July
Speaking through emerald cut facets
Dear child, I met you too
Full of tobacco and honey