Twice brilliant, touched by fire,
cathedrals fill my eyes.
I dream of Fat Man at the witching hour and
burn for the gaze of the single Observer.
His eyes are the moon and I shiver with delight
as He undresses me across this confluence of time
and space and circumstance unseen and seen.
Can He guess my face?
Can He guess my name?
Does He see my fingers dreaming
death in designs of warm blood? 

Cure me of this cruel loneliness,
Brave Investigator.
There is a drive inside of me
beyond deus and origin.
Peel back Your atoms and see the First Mouth.
Close Your eyes to her body.
Open Your cells to the blood noumena.
Feel the Demiurge tongue in
the wind on Your neck.
I have a hundred flowering gardens inside of me,
each one holding a body for You to find.
Oh, Brave Observer, kill the light.
Let us meet at the cathedrals in the dark.