Huxley’s Revelation

 

I taste the apocalypse on your pretty finger-tips.
Your mouth is a crucifix.
I find prayer on your lips.

Drinking knowledge from a tainted well.
Why do all of these voices have to yell?
There’s a story that the poets tell about the grace from which we fell.

Of all these things you remind me, as we wake from the ecstasy of a warm, milk-white dream.

I taste the apocalypse on your pretty finger-tips.

 

 

© Michael Salamone      –      Salatone Recordings      –      Michael Salamone Publishing