Pigments of my Imagination

Accustomed to spells of terrible intensity
this wicked-laden night has
scorched my heart to death
smelling the burn my nostrils open and shut like the furnace

And above my head like a red hammer about to fall
are yellowing devils picking at the bones
I thought they were pigments
of my imagination

but they are real

And accustomed to spells of terrible intensity
this wicked-laden night has
brought me down to earth
and clawing through the dirt I try to resist its heat

Because above my head like a gold pot of honeyed water
are little white folk tapping at my soul
I thought tonight they were figments
of my imagination

but they are real...