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 its still unrivaled here
Because things aren't born
Only ideas
Are sleeping safely
Far beyond the horrors of decay
And they are sacred and immortal
Because they never have to fade.

Thumbing at times half-heartedly
Through flipbooks of a lonely child
Old silent movies shake and flicker
In the dark theater between my thighs
Then countless are the handsome limbs
That wildly jump and hop
Soulless bodies unspecified
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 to quickly disappear
Alas! Reality is such a crippled whore
All mortal things are sick and rotten to the core
Only the mind, a 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
Or 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.