I am the glow without any light.
I have a soul weaving through ideology.
but in the end
the exile consumes my sins.

Curtain lowered over my facade.
Teasing the tongue with blood.
That drenched the beloved lamp-shade.
Thirty-three degrees Celsius.
Fresh.

My angel has a vendetta.
Her thoughts wandering in oblivion.
But no, not you!
Ma bête noire, Je t'aime.
Thou shall guide me.