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The sun brings up yesterdays evils
and drags them back into the sky
and I have not long enough arms my love
to reach for the curtains of life
the days have a thing for believers
as the night has its hands in your eyes
and it may not just be tomorrow
it may be the rest of your life
here is song for the lonely
and a prayer whispered into the night
for a withered cunt with a broken lung
and a thorn etched in his side.
food for the worms
blood for the trees to grow
muscle and bone, arrogant soul
song for the birds
carbon and apathy
carving goodbyes in the back of his throne
is this the fight
losing my sanity
losing my mind
finding my home
I don't blame me
I'm growing old
You limp through the small conversations
from the weight your back foot has to bear
as you empty your guts to the alley
and sweep up the yesterday prayers
these days I'm a sucker for tenses
I write in the the third person now
and the days I'm not swinging for fences
I am singing for ways to get out
and here is a song for the empty
and a prayer uttered into the ground
for the broken king with his arm in a sling
and his hands holding onto his crown.
food for the worms
blood for the trees to grow
muscle and bone, arrogant soul
song for the birds
carbon and apathy
carving goodbyes in the back of his throne
is this the fight
losing my sanity
losing my mind
finding my home
I don't blame me
I'm growing old