Warfare of the Brain

Blessed is the bolshie one who believes,

While her crystal tear is worn neck-round,

In solus – not the smears She breathes.

Three joss sticks: light them and leave

As my hollow, empty hopes resound;

Cursed is the childish one who believes

That their prayers are deemed worthy.

For the only true mantra that is sound

Is in solus – not the smears She breathes.

Though this chain, willingly worn, weaves

Kin-formity, holds me forcefully bound –

Just like the pendulum one who believes

The desperate cries of the world deceive

Her deaf, opal ears: turns them, downed,

In solus – not the smears She breathes.

I don’t mind karma worn on my sleeves

Or whenever my icy infidelity is found:

So blessed when the bolshie one believes,

In solus – not the smears She breathes.

“I said I’ll do it alone, 妈咪,” but you’ve become the necklace, interwound.