A canticle

I have murdered god
I have burnt love alive
To build myself a hollow
I have wasted away a life,that is borrowed
My words have no meaning nor shape
My voice scraped from my barren throat,a lament for the deaf
Amongst the other nudes,my eyes reflects a neon fire
I crawl away from the illuminated ghosts of my past
How can I tell you,how can I tell you,that I am scared?
Who will sing to me in an absent language again?
For whom will I scour through foreign films, to express love in?
Who will speak to me of brighter days,where no one blows holes in our coffins anymore?
When will I listen again,to the whispers that gathers by your footsteps?
How can i tell you,how can I tell you,that I am scared?
And who,who,will ever be written about in these poems?
And who will I sing about?
And above all,for whom,must I live with death,so tremendously ahead of time?
How can I tell you,how can I tell you,that I am scared? When I have spent this borrowed time
I want to remember you,wearing a small smile
I will recite stupid poems,composed of wise words
To stay with you
Even if,for a little while I will negotiate with death,to draw the line at the edge of infinity
How do I live without you,you who teach me the ruins of a language that frees me from the shackles of my own cowardice?
Can you not say,that I am scared?