The clouds all rolled in,
the thunders all broke for you, Lilah.
You knew something gruesome in your gait,
something cruel on your tongue,
and the pistons were all grinding teeth for your sad.
You used to cry when you sang shotgun fellatio blues, Lilah,
but your slate is so much blanker now.
I’m not a trained chaplain to the broken,
and I’m nothing better than simple,
but I know the man who took your virginity is a pervert, Delilah,
and all your friends are bandits.
You are a minstrel to this world
if an end to this doesn’t know you.
You are a vacation for a balding lawyer
if an end to this doesn’t know you,
and you’ll know home in places better suited for sinners.
That hurt you cried from stays without view.
And that burning you shy from blazes for you.
Something strikes me beautiful
in a man of the sky being worth living for.
Something strikes me rich
in a source of surrender.
But I think you’ve taken refuge in a ghost, Lilah,
in a mask to the heart,
and to the blood that it beats awesomely.
Nothing kinks my chest muscle like it does to turn,
but something better is hard to come by,
and the leave seems only natural.
Everything flowers obnoxiously in its time,
everything has its sick step.
And now, with hesitance and mountainhurt,
all I have for you is a rusty
“Goodbye.”
And so, Lilah, goodbye.
