The Arsenist Who Struck In The Night Time
"Hello, this is the Bethlehem inn.
We have no room in the stable,
so you'll have to sleep outside. . ."
And thus a child was born, on the soil,
of a usless old tire yard
Now stands there, a supermarket.
Then was born a child
With the fire in his eyes. . .
And the eyes, they will destroy me.
This is why he kills me,
Every night, within my head.
He taunts me with his fresh faced
Wonderment, and wondrous charm
He is the killer in your sleep,
He is the lover, never loved,
He is the arsenist of the night.
No one ever thinks of,
him as someone to admire.
Personally, I think very
differently.
So I ran to his window,
Flung myself upon the pane,
There I saw him dreaming. . .
And I cried, and I fell, and I almost died
in my sleep that night,
I almost died in my sleep that night. . .
Dry your tears, little child.
I'm here for you now. . .
Dry your eyes, I'll never leave your side. . .
But in the end. . .
when the dawn splashes over my face
It is my tears turning gold. . .
NB: The misspelling of 'arsonist' is intentional.
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