Rite

In this deranged, fertile light - which makes shadier our sight -, come and sit with me, right here to join the passage's rite of a generous dark to find. Unlit your cigarette with that sleight move by offering it to the night and, from the ashtray of dreams and might, augur my future; see the fright for armoring me against its smite. And say: I bound all these tribes of kite and bury you under the ashes and blight; deep inside the hallways of the iron hill to quite. Burn - you say -, and they all become trite for they only promised me two-tongued daylight but, now on, all I can see is the fire of my dark bright.