For Liz a little bit of Hyde.
The tongue of a bell strikes the shell.
The shell cries out a double tell.
The pressure swells and circles fly,
To infinity the cry.
Vibrations we think as frail,
Forever and ever wail.
Nirvana within the core,
Touches and tastes every shore.
Torment of a sensuous soul,
Lays the scars inside the goal.
Doubt makes for shady mortar.
Apocalypse, has no quarter.
Garrotted are the thoughts instead,
Promised when the chalice bled.
Holy vows and oaths they swore,
Toast of hemlocks, evermore.
She, the tongue that struck the shell,
And I, the wrung and tolling bell.