Fifty-Nine Degrees - with Crimsin

a reliquary curse
of lost souls  
who are my muses  
 
with a cloud of fleas  
of ghost and beings
seizing dead at the portal

through the keyhole of pain
in disambiguation's rigor mortis
as I lay lame with icy veins  
 
cold to the touch  
lest I embrace the soul  
of the giver and find refuge
where umbra meets lumin  
in God's own vessel
find me in the shadows
sifting the eternal essence from feces
 
I break in hours in the eternal light
shifting from one truth to the next
until there is nothing left
and I blow away with the winds
getting lost amongst the screaming
 
of fifty-nine degrees
beneath graveyard trees  
drawn to death  
 
prostituting the flames  
with the devil's purse  
a reliquary curse