Dawn comes with the crack of wood veins,
Twigs yelling and leaves moaning underneath a heavy pace;
And with the whooshing sounds of ghastly appearances
The morning starts taking off her dark wedding veils.
One by one she reveals all of my own, now, bodies,
Old skeletons are hidden in the closets of the woods,
New bleeding bodies lingering nobly with the foliage covering
Of teeth-gritting, raising hairs along the spine.
Chicken wings skin and goose bumps on thighs and neck round fit:
She loves decorating things called people,
Night to day and day by twenty-four hours cycles of earthly life,
Placing poisons in bodies of flesh,
Decorating them with scars on the outside,
Making lists of beauty placed on top of beauty.
And it is I the fine artist!