---

Patch the line of sight I plea
it's open, the barge is lost at sea.
Profuse, corrupt, liquid disdain,
its eyes see colors below the flame.
Scratch the skin to peel and sweat,
the feathers and fur too real to forget.
Expulse, parole, morose the chagrin
to echo the path from where we begin.
The village is aft corroded by oil,
still lit and seeking a virgin soil.
Alive but tattered, saved by the dust,
hands still clenching, aged by rust.
The froth it multiplies as crystals decay,
smashed into powder that
darkens the day.
No peace, no faith,
incestuous and crushed,
we swelter and toil,
restrained and hushed.
No peace, no faith, incestuous and
crushed.

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