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 shit 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

So why not stay and forever make a home

In the darkness of the only place

You never can belong?

In a land, sublime that some call fantasy

Our only hope of love

Our immortality

There's not a shred of beauty here

Residing in the human flesh

There's only sadness and confusion

And the stench of shit and death