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
