I won a small war with the blind yesterday,
Now I can't move - for the rage has long gone -
There's just a red ball lodged inside my worn head
Which slowly inflates, and there will be no brain.

Blood dripped in freedom from my shredded lips
And Pyrhhus stood near with his comforting arms -
The black and gold standard is crusted with blood
And the regiment's drummer lies dead in the field.

I went to a river to wash out my wounds
But she had no more tears and, turning to dust,
She rippled red coils and took me to her tail,
Where, salt in black air, I beheld Maelstrom.

I opened to shout, but I swallowed myself
And dissolved from the cliff-top into the pitch ocean;
His mouth opened wide, tearing flesh from my bones,
While a nation of voices screamed blood from froth-lungs.

Brine lashes all and has burnt all my eyes
And the flames spread beyond to consume my last sight
The world is replaced with the sound of hate's roar
And I whip out with scorn, my tongue blackened with fire.