The Apple and the Tree
Make a choice,
It’s the eye or the lip,
Mine is the mark,
The brand of the whip.
Digging, deceiving, the wretched are weeping,
Now hollow your heartache and bury the shame,
A cross with a backstrap,
All yours and you like that,
Binding the bleeding I’ll strangle the veins.
Heroes, harlots, painted in scarlet,
Claw at your coffin and scratch out my name.
I take you, your life, your struggle, your strife,
Entomb you in marble and claim you as wife.
A shot rings out for your years long gone,
The song of the grenade you dove upon,
Cratered and caved, you lie sullied and saved,
Silent and still in a suburban grave.
I am the house,
Stood still in the storm,
And should thunder clap within these walls,
Feel free to brave the rains outdoors.
Time to choose,
It’s the stairs or the door,
Yours is the ruin,
The hole in the floor.
Carry my burden, your mine and it’s certain,
Your mouth’s wide open like a lovers legs,
The crest on your finger,
A promise that lingers,
A ring forged of gold and heavy as lead.
Tenser and tighter, your skin turning whiter,
The heart is a murmur in a city of noise,
So tell me, please, which would you miss?
The ache of my promise or the taste of my fist?
We live in the shadow of something too great,
A terrible creed of monstrous weight,
A torch to be passed, from the first to the last,
The crooked remains of practices past,
I am the son,
The apple of the tree,
And if fear is the heart of love
Then I’ll let you adore me.
