Glass, I live atop glass.
On a hill of silent waiting,
and years of lonely dark.

Where not a sound within does part,
from the neck of the proud,
yet humble young lark.

Flames, I live amidst flames.
Where the fires, they burn,
all traces of age.

And not one corner,
ceases to show me my face;
and how these  damaged tears,
have etched grooves on its base.

Lies, I live amidst lies.
So deep they run,
to sever all ties;
So deep they run,
It keeps them alive.

So faltered in form,
yet strong they stand,
so faltered, so strong,
these lies.

Death, I walk amidst death,
of the faultless and hollow,
who scream out for health.

Of the brave, and the wicked,
who have no names.
Of the lovers and sinners,
and pleaders in pain.

The people in here are not to be spoken to,
The people in here are not to be met,
they breathe violence abundant,
from every pore;
speckled in every colour,
they must be abhorred.

The people in here don’t fancy a meal,
of wined venison, or roasted veal,
they thirst, here, for something slightly more fresh;
the sins of the heart, and acts of the flesh.

The people in here, don’t live far away,
just around the corner,
and under the ley.

The people in here, aren’t people at all,
You’ll find them in their mouldy holes,
that surround me and my broken house–
spot them creeping, and roaming about,
with jagged teeth, and lucent tongue,
and blackened nails,
that have inward sunk.

You’ll find my devils feeding away, at–
mother, father, and other innocent prey.
They care not for your penitence,
for they caused the wrongs you hope to right.

Glass. Flame. Lies and Death,
this is the house that I live in.