Time to tell of bodies, shapes born of a different kind;
Sons who pry horoscopes, waiting for the Father to die.
The bodies of giants, crushed beneath the structured earth.
Cruel and violent, they were the children of blood.
Violet brews of aconite, roots unearthed by Stepmother.
She still smells of whiskey; silken knees and blue garters.
With the price of Heaven, held within a purple fist;
All proper affection, left in the blood-soaked mud.
A dying tree grows pity, and bears ripened fruit.
And though our chances are many, we must lose our youth.
His heart swells like Jupiter, but his wrath is used and dry.
His face looks like Lucifer, his looks are a natural lie.
A weakness formed by violence, and what he can't deny.
Tired maiden Justice, wishes she could cry.