Number Eight

I prick my fingers on the thorns
To ride the devil’s own luck.
I will destroy beauty with horns.

Revel in your own time’s values.
Everything’s ablaze, in quiet solitude.
It’s crashing down now, what a ruse.

A year late and short a grand.
Mirrors are erected to remind us:
Oh, how we burn Fairyland.

I’ll take you for a spin in incense,
But better be ready to dive.
They say I’m a bad influence.