1. |
Perhaps as a Dying Lamb
04:58
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PERHAPS AS A DYING LAMB
I watch the sun fall into a thousand silent shards.
Blinded, I bask where it all comes to pool,
and suddenly everything is okay.
They're building right on top of me,
and bearing gifts made out of my own bones.
I hear the broken waves sing ever changing, feinted songs.
Limpid, I hang on the air to take it all in,
to let it swell and wash over me,
when suddenly everything is okay.
They're building right on top of me,
bearing gifts I swear are my bones;
burning black holes into everything.
Shape the ashes into new home
as I'm watching through the holes in my own shadow.
I touch the blade and fall as a thousand burning strands,
and I am collected now, in the palm of my own hand.
I step back and attempt to reassemble;
perhaps as an iron curtain, perhaps as a dying lamb.
They're filling those black holes with anything,
shape the ashes into my new home
as I'm watching through the holes in my shadow.
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2. |
Old Friends
03:35
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OLD FRIENDS
We're cut off like the burden of branches,
and we are all dropped down the well.
The sweetness of not having ventured
or ever gained much down the well.
I'm swimming with my old friends, and we don't need no rope.
Caught with our backs turned, pissing in public, into the wind.
The story goes, we were red handed, so we call out, out of the well.
But I remember... we are old friends. We are faceless.
We are vacant. We were old then, but we are ageless.
We're given the sweetest medicines,
told to swallow; to look out the window.
We're given ten thousand good reasons,
but we swallow and wear out the window.
I'm sleeping with my old friends, and we don't need no beds.
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3. |
Holes in Pretty Things
07:25
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HOLES IN PRETTY THINGS
My consciousness; my enemy. My will to bend and pry.
As much as One may seek divinity, the same is true of time.
A former self, a bottled plan, left not but to cross lines,
has ripped and torn and bruised itself, as paths tend to define.
So one day we may flow as steel and bible leather (unable to burn through),
I could murder one with wings to have these secrets proved.
Falling and aching, as their own two selves are blind,
will never trust in me, for I have seen the end of all and smiled.
One day I may too come and go; that I might fall into better eyes,
may shed these skins and thorns.
So one day you may too come to know,
may recognize and wear that skin no more.
My lossless bliss may tend to my will not to survive quite so much as the rest.
I have taken a scorned and bitter plan and watched it go free,
as it has sipped of a loss itself.
Sin is refined within what's died.
Behind my eyes you were withered and deprived.
Only my soiled self is tame. Only my soiled self remains.
Only my soiled self feels pain. Only my soiled self can change.
The tears of one thousand widows have been shed,
and I couldn't be any less afraid of death.
As only a river knows the place from whence it bled,
so too have I with devils stood and stripped and killed and lied.
So too have I with devils stood and stripped and killed and lied.
To wallow and brood and put holes in pretty things,
to swallow you and never choose which way the dagger swings,
to follow, fooled, is to allow myself to die.
I sting and scar anew and come up so unsatisfied.
Only my soiled self is named. My soiled self, deranged.
Only my soiled self is worthy of such pain.
So that one day we too may flow, may come to level tides,
and find peace within The Soul.
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