Lightning strikes
through my fingertips.
Static shocks
from the telephone.
Hair that stands
on its very own.
Snow that falls
from her silver lips.
If I can't
be yours
then you might as well rip my eyes out.
Underneath
the floors
the guillotine slowly cries out
for the coming of the ice queen.
The cradle in her eyes.
Remover of the fear
when everybody dies.
The holder of the crystal.
The wisdom of the sage.
Thе middle of the blizzard.
The sеtters of the stage.
Thistle blooms
from your fingertips.
Ginger snaps
with a butcher knife.
Lips so red,
like the bloody drips
from your teeth
at the end of life.
Chemicals
coursing through my veins.
Little words
looping in our brains.
Can't be sure,
cos I can't be sure
Can't be sure,
cos my soul's not pure
like the soul inside the ice queen.
The cradle in her eyes.
Remover of the fear
when everybody dies.
The holder of the crystal.
The wisdom of the sage.
The knowledge of the prophet.
The setters of the stage.