Picious porcelain tendrils,

liquesced into my palm,

a fire-like psychalgia

begins to surge and walm.

Yet I subsist despite it

in a state much like aplomb.

And the carillon chimes on and on.

The carillon chimes on.

Veiled in ice, my fingertips,

cold thunder at each heel

flares and ebbs unendingly,

in boundless sky-born peal.

So I subsist despite it,

and pretend that I don't feel.

And the carillon chimes on and on.

The carillon chimes on.

Refulgency to blinding-point,

the maltha burns by streak.

The pain may yet grow stronger,

as the molten suns respeak,

but, I'll subsist despite it,

though I'm powerless and meek.

And the carillon chimes on and on.

The carillon chimes on.

It has, and does, and will again.

The carillon chimes on.