Children Of The Corn

There's not a shred of beauty here,
Residing in the human flesh
There's only sadness and confusion,
And the stench of shit and death.

In moments dull of self-pity,
Of insufficiency and doubt,
I catch myself a candid thief,
Wishing that there'd be someone else.

Sometimes ghosts are passing through,
The mind of labyrinthine tomb,
And yet its still unrivaled here,
Because things aren't born,
Only ideas are sleeping safely
Far beyond the horrors of decay.
And they a sacred and immortal
Because they never have to fade.

Thumbing at times half-heartedly
Through flipbooks of a lonely child,
All silent movies shake and flicker,
In the dark theater between my things,
Then countless are the handsome limbs,
That wildly jump and hop
Soulless bodies unspecified
As they are numberless and cropped.

When you close your tired eyes
Does he then join you in this place?
Will he cross over, share your dream
Or does he vanish on the doorstep
All to quickly disappear.
Alas! Reality is such a crippled whore
All mortal things are sick and rotten to the core,
Only the night, a frail but kingly true,
Gives birth to beauty love and truth.

So why not stay and forever make a home
In the darkness of the only place
You never can belong?
In a land, sublime that some call fantasy
Our only hope of love
Is immortality.

There's not a shred of beauty here,
Residing in the human flesh
There's only sadness and confusion,
And the stench of shit and death.