When the music stops,
And the dance of Pan slows to a tranced out gait,
All elixirs gone.
When springs orgiastic séance sees the morning light,
Seeping in through the basement windows,
Of crack-room houses.
When all alchemic blends of artificial emotion,
Come crashing to a standstill,
On a jail house floor.
One is left to wonder,
When will the devil come to play again?
Here where the dead dare to be danced upon.
Here where we hurt the angels for pleasure.
Here where the natural ends,
And the surreal begins,
Our desiderata of sin beckons.
And who are we to turn it away?
Refuse this well walked path of shooting star lives,
Souls sprinkled in demon dusts,
Lounged in liquids dripping ecstasy,
Encompassed in baleful curtains of shared smoke.
Who are we,
To ask to return to innocence once again ?
The day we heard the music end.