And my dreams, and my dreams,
come to me like a high way man,
creeping, creeping, slowly as my,
blood runs cold and dry,
over the hands of men,
who built my melting worlds.
Workers and slaves,
transforming in the eye
of the distorted flame,
forging my core,
in the deep furnace,
that is beyond and beyond and beyond,
the reach of blistered fingers.

Spheres and aura arise from
the lake of a molten sun, to show,
only to show,
that the windows are open,
but the doors are locked,

Transcending through the world,
beaten and manicured,
the workmen hammer in the
last nail in the floor board,
that is my world.