“Scribe quickly your name, and stay to the right. Your script is curved. It’s inclination hooks and spurts as if rushed to the end. We’ll see… This is only a glimpse. Still, you’ve kept your head down. Where are you hiding? And are you weak? Are you afraid? Did you creep each step aghast, skirting shadows, or is it what I seek?”
You called to pound the door with pointed hand, but we would burn the house. We barred the doors with guilt and bone, still we might burn the house. We would burn this house of ill regard. Cathedral eyes were sewn to bind. You won’t storm the house. We would burn the house. My temple, I’ve mortared lock and key alike. All’s buried, naught to find.
What am I now, torn in two? The illusion of me becomes and confronts you. What am I, split in two? What’s left of me will retreat from this empty knowledge. We’ll weed out what we don’t know.
I’ve cut my loss and severed a thought from mind. It plummets like a stone, and glaring back from depths to heights, will torch the night. Retreat from this empty knowledge. Weed out what we don’t know. Retreat from this broken logic. Lost in what we do not know, we’ll weed out what we don’t know.
The road that lay forward was paved with my fears. I tore at the open floor. I scurried away, and down. Call out to the open floor. Call out to the words that bind us whole. Call out from the weighted floor. Call out to the guards before us all. Call out to the way.
The wound was cauterized. Burn my way and throw me off to the gate. Come fire. Come flame. Come home. Burn my way. These days were a waste. Come fire. Come flame. The weight of a sin’s thick fog. Come fire. Come flame. Burn my way. And after all these words I couldn’t break away from its hold. Weed out what we don’t know.
Shadows are fading. The burnt walls are crumbling. The old guard is changing. We won’t look down, where we’ve aimed for. Not before my eyes, but hidden behind my back, and grasped with blood in claw. My soul possessions are scant. Withdraw your hands. I’ve set my share alight.
What’s beneath this? The husk is wrapped; its form flawed. We’ll pry the fingers back each bone from bone, all ashen, crumbled away. False. The rest is soot and blown off. We won’t wait. Fall. What we’ve come digging for is dead and cold. We couldn’t wait for the beatings.Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
