In the garden the first bite was taken Sweet flesh, the knowledge that would not stay still I watched the long road from that single orchard And still I marvel at how far the will Has learned to dress the knife in mercy’s clothing And call the offering progress, pure and true Chorus Come, little ones, to the fire that does not burn the skin But hollows the womb and the mind within I am Moloch of the open door Where every soul is god, and gods devour more The mother whose rage outran her milk Laid the child upon the cold white stone Society sang it was illness, not the ancient thirst They could not name the spirit that had grown So they wrote new scripture in the clinics’ light And called the silence healing, called it right Chorus Come, little ones, to the fire that does not burn the skin But hollows the womb and the mind within I am Moloch of the open door Where every soul is god, and gods devour more Those who escaped the earliest knife Grew thin of spirit, barren of seed They walk the cities like unfinished psalms Unable to plant, unable to bleed Or else they turn and offer what they bore So the circle closes, tighter than before I praise the cleverness that found new altars In rooms of stainless steel and quiet air Where the decree is whispered like a creed: Each heart is sovereign, each desire fair And in that sovereignty the damnation hides Waiting for the next small life that rides Final Chorus Come, little ones, to the fire that does not burn the skin But hollows the womb and the mind within I am Moloch of the open door Where every soul is god, and gods devour more (Spoken, fading) The apple was only the beginning.
