Moonchild of the Apocalypse

I used to have meaning, now I make it up as I go.
Rumbling thunder and drums beats into the void of nowhere.
Ugly sappy fuck illusions in front of broken shades.
All for things to be exposed and seen for what they truly are.
Just average everyday 9 to 5 with the onset of alcoholism.
The romance in this black magik has faded into used up greys.
Moonchild and Apocalypse promises for the real thing minus the end of the world.
I am wrapped up in tinfoil so subject to lighting strikes and general experimental therapy.
Sacrifice the mood of love and whip me till I bleed envy.
My loose teeth rattle in a skull no longer my own.
The chafing from the rope is beginning to get on our nerves.
What a dirty man was last days because, endless nights growing into vampire despair.
But this lust of the flesh is of a different kind, we end in the place we don't exist in.
My petty desire is the dot in the center, you are the circumference everywhere. 

Dru