Incubus

Ask me not what I think of you

My dark tongue could desecrate your pupils

Time breathes, time heals, and time knifes your scruples

Ask not what time thinks of the world of yours

Its cold bitter-sweet sword cuts concrete butter

Its blue lips will kiss yours in the street gutter

I ask not what I think of me

My deranged black veins will poison silver moons

Our predicament has crimson demons swoon

Time asks not what we think of it

My incendiary touch did mark your breast

Your imaginary hate put mine to rest