You hang lifelessly atop this murky lake. Slowly being washed over by January water. Drowning the dead as our past regressions are laid to rest. Everything you were: reduced to ash, taking space in this velvet pouch, ceremoniously released, to help this selfish mortal toil.
Forced to continue moving, as the currents take you and the fish consume you. Forced to become something you have no control over. Reworked into human condition.
No reward for your servitude, unjust rebirth. Selfish as mortal creation. Plagued by man's conditioning to honor their dead. You keep moving, not who you were, but what you are now.
Time falls apart, around you. Loose sands in a liquid hourglass.
Ash becoming mud.
Your memory a murky sediment, in distant river beds. Aging again, as if you haven't endured enough.
Becoming lye and holding on as your existence gets washed over. You were never pure enough to cleanse this loss. Irony becoming an acceptable consequence of birth. It was always in your nature, dormant in our name. Wallower, swamp dweller. Clan of Kerr.Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
