Asked me to ghost him
I don't like spirits
The one I talk to won't respond
Just sits on a still machine and she can tell that the quiet isn't ringing the bells.
And why, is it such a long way down?
And why, must we rip up the ground?
Choked into a knot, they never concede
With eyes like boulders that roll for the trees
(And) hands around our neck
With nothing to say but plenty to spit
And some day, we want a firmer grip
But these days, we're all splinters scattered amongst the wood-chips
Bury It, bury it, bury it until it calls
With airborn ashes, spread from eight legs
To burn out all the graves.
We'll know when it's free,
The womb won't be so kind
As to keep us sheltered in echoes
From a scream that died long ago.
Hallucinations. The voiceless faces
Woven together too fine
To provide comfort outside
When limbs shake, when the bead groans
Try, braining a thought against a wall
Tried, but the answer doesn't soften the withdrawals
Detuned disposal, long and hard or short
Hung like moss, from a rotting branch
Tendrils away, ever searching, will this be it? Will this be it?
Left, gutted in the mud
Just like a skeleton, the one we always want to find