Paraphrase of Hate an' Love

Introspection into fragmented self; is it real?

In the pretence of beauty, I seek the holy,

Yet, all I find is the skull and the seal of death!

Oh, divine still, the sickness broods within the corpse,

And arises in cascade of maggots, now taking form;

Mephistopheles, with his stark, lean figure, rises from

The Heart - his sunken eyes betray coercive intent, his

Hands stretch towards me... I am under the spell, goaded

Into action; ‘tis not my will to destroy and kill! O, the

Flower-beds seem to beckon me, down into the embrace

Of sweet memories, and yet, the scent feels unfamiliar,

The vestige of normalcy fades... I am betrayed! Betrayed

By the self, whose hands seem only to dispose of love and

Fashion hate out of misery; Mephistopheles, in the shadow

Of thine horns, on the meek I cast the thorns of revenge!

Breaking from every divinity, but Time, I stumble through

The fields of roses, a stranger, in search of a friend... But

Look! The sky darkens and murmurs in thunder-tongues,

Blazing infernal fire, it casts upon me leaden rain, which,

Wearing on my conscience, kills the flowers in the field.

O, how much longer we have to reconcile, and divine the

Future that’s ours to create; we must plant the seeds of love,

Lest we’re devoured by pride and hate. But I am not a gardener;

Still, I walk the fields, caressing the flowers to the best of my

Ability; I fear I am a destroyer, whose hands have wrought the

Swords of war and torn the boughs from virgin’s arms - oh, mothers

Cried, widows wept; but these eyes, they haven’t a tear to shed.

I gaze emptily, from my dwelling place within the hearth, I seek

Revelation of higher spirit, but God, oh, He never departs from his

Palace of Virtues; out of fear, or sadness? Wouldn’t You come, Father,

And descend upon your sons; bloodied hands of fathers bloody the hands

Of children - can’t You, Sphere-Maker, wash them in your saffron light?

Or are we forever lost?