Our hearts are terrifying
and yet so wonderful deep down
when the blood oozes through
the cracks of the ice.
Garlands of garish frozen roses
adorn vases of ice:
this coldest place roamed by wraiths
with tapestries hung
that celebrate our deeds.
There is no mead in this hall,
not a drop of liquor intoxicates:
this is reality,
our reality
of ice that bothers us not.
The mist of aeons flows through our veins
and orbits the planets in our brains.
Nobody is miserable!
We sing hymns to being beyond winning and losing,
beneath and above the game,
laughing resplendent with maddening tones.
We spurn gold for icicles,
rubies set in seven packed mounds of snow
twinkle in the starlight that filters through our pyramid.
We drank the blood of angels,
drank the blood of demons
but found intoxication divine and demonic
could not satisfy our thirst.
Ourselves we found
among the ruins of the society we destroyed
in our neurons that seethed antipathy
at the world that cared not for its demise.
Careless we roamed,
but now we sit still.