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 **** and death.

In moments, dull, of self-pity

of insufficiency and doubt,

I catch myself, black-handed thief

wishing that there'd be someone else.

Sometimes ghosts are passing through

the mind, both labyrinth and tomb,

and yet it's still unrivalled here,

Because all things unborn, only ideas,

are sleeping safely far beyond the horrors of decay,

and are thus sacred and immortal,

because they never have to fade.

Thumbing at times harlf-heartedly

through flip-books of a lonely child,

old silent movies shake and flicker

in the dark theatre between my thighs.

Then countless are the heads and limbs that wildly jump atop

soulless bodies, unspecific,

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 too quickly disappear ?

Alas reality is such a crippled whore,

all mortal things are sick and rotten to the core,

only the mind, that frail, but kingly jewel,

gives birth to beauty, love and truth.