Lost connection,
Grey flesh, concrete...

He says his thoughts are tangled like
Thorns...

This day, Winter sat upon the land,
Its bloodless knife sitting in its open hand...

He steps from the icy grip of Winter and into
the cool waters of Spring...

Machine of Circumstance
who sees and who bleeds...

Through the veil of a thousand lines I see
pushing the membrane outwardly...

There is a flitting spark between-and-in
passes back and forth to die when held...

I am your swordarm
Your shadow...

The cave of misconception
I am the roof of your dreams...

My ribcage
is a coffin for the little birds...

Murder-eyes look into me and say
like heresy, hear-say...

Let me slough you open and let me see,
what the storm of dust you are made of me...