1. |
est cette vie?
02:11
|
|||
|
embody no fantasy.
nevertheless there is unrest in the streets,
there's weight in accord,
but if the bomb is at our feet its too late.
my heart's pestle lingers.
so much to vie for. so much to die for.
there's poison in the water,
there's land being claimed,
there's miasma in the breeze, and my skin scalds.
now its at every turn,
the needles stuck on scared, and keeps cutting back to fright.
with no blood tarrying in my veins, I'm echoing the same shock.
will there be a choir singing at the spire?
will there be a hand straining down to wrench me out?
is there help bound?
too rigid to want it, mother, I need it.
|
||||
2. |
est-ce la mort?
02:56
|
|||
|
this feeble scheme, the complex.
fiscally fond sheep in dejected mock love,
but with only lucrative darts.
considering they land on the board,
will the people cry, "what mores?!"
stapling itself to every partisan angle of
order,
a cold cash culture deserts us in the communal,
profane cinders...
cornered in a loop of rainy, ugly, brokenness,
until the spending bends.
its a limp evil that pines.
without filling the sullied bowl, the reliced beast would starve...
we idle in adorned time
we succumb, are humbled, and numb.
|
||||
3. |
able
02:09
|
|||
|
heedful perception,
confined consciousness,
your same cold climate, pop fashion
your self, grit, your science.
this world is inconstant, rimming with reckless want,
shedding.
and the bane youth, conformed, has misused another ration.
a bitter view has no field to call home.
deaf to the light, blind to the sage attainment.
bearing brassy redwood stems,
and beholding steeply;
outlive living, outlive the expiration date,
curtains closing across your dais,
stepping in front if you're able.
|
||||
4. |
||||
|
I hold like we've corroded, corrupted something sheer.
I carry trouble and permit onus on entirety.
busted bonds and brittle boundaries like a citadel contrived in sand;
an ebbing martyr to the tide.
its just another moon emerging,
dragging up the pall,
unfurling my eyes, and searing them until they're caustic and sour.
now, all this acrimony constricts around my neck
like a public hanging,
and all the town is laughing, spitting, and pitching putrid viand.
because now I'm the one
white-knuckle clutching the shovel,
peering at the void in the landscape,
beaming at the grave that reads "devotion".
my crumbling lungs wilt as I look back.
|
||||
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