You have hands of gardens, voice of oceans. Eve contradicting the unwashed heathen at her feet. I know I have not been well but place me in that jacuzzi in your eyes and I'll be born again. Watch the scars peel from the flesh and down the drain to oblivion (where the ex lovers go) Let's ride high on a chariot through back roads while my esteem drags on the gravel below. The horses may cry into pure midnight but your skin flashes with miracles that put all the doctors and saints to shame. Take my discolored palm and lead me to your bed where I can dream wide awake of being a God instead of a beggar. You can give me your sorrow and foibles. I'll place them in the black hole within for you to stitch with your lips as the Mongol Empire burns in our embrace.