and in the mad kitchen is destiny brewing strange desserts
sometimes to dust our fingers with powders of the miraculous
time, the ceaseless angel that feeds the hungry moment
life is a dish grown cold, but yet must be eaten, in darkness
punctuated by morsels of joy that burst as light when bitten
mostly dimmed by dreams of the past, at times invisible
ours is to grasp the seconds as they slip from our very appetites
never to collect enough excuses to satisfy the craving to be
as the winds lick the magic from our hands, emptiness howls
and in the mad kitchen is destiny brewing strange desserts
we that are starving for change have dreamed of dark sweets
the angel to open the final taste, to drop us in the mouth of death
