Thy Serpent

I do profound the death,
Inside which it weakens me.
Not mine acting does it cause
..it is in fear.
But blindness thou see in every mortal -
dreamlike thought,
including in me.
Beheaded I am,
greedly waiting besides thine grotesque being.
For a saviour of this soul
had it even ever been ?
Thou all art but blind fruits, in mine created bowl;
Only feeling my hunger to thine flesh,
as stars have come old.
It Is a desolate night in me again,