Dirt
We know it's far too late, it ate the cycle, it became the pattern of ritual. As with all things within creation it is as the maker made it; of it's image, of it's habits.
Created to be destroyed, G-d is a death junkie, it loves suffering, it loves you when you crawl, it loves you best when your on your knees and sobbing. Made to bring misery, made to create suffering on other heads.
Bane, tormentor.
One is the clay, one is the blade.
Carving each other's future by molding each others present, burning our paths into one another. From the dust we came and dust we return, forged of carbon, hard as steel, soft as milk, wailing into our mouths and sobbing into our faces. Feeling ourself turning to ash in front of us. Spiraling outward downward through the gravity well like tornado breath.
Watch and singe, wait and pray, kiss the bullet, say a silent prayer to get through tomorrow without the pain of yesterdays faded haunt.
Feel the fathers bloody smile widen behind your head, the cold dusty hands of mothers on our shoulders, urging us onward, forward, toward...nothing at all.
The divine wind, the laughing kamikaze, spill my guts onto the ground and the blood won't wash away my shame, the fire won't burn away the blame. One would have it no other way, it is as the creator, shed the skin, feed the jackal, laugh like the hyena as one eats the rabbit.
One is anything asked of it, one is in flux, it can wear as many thorns in it's face as requested. As long as it's my knife sticking from the orbital, my bat that shatters the back; then I can wear all the burden of the conscience birthed to me.
Created to be destroyed, G-d is a death junkie, it loves suffering, it loves you when you crawl, it loves you best when your on your knees and sobbing. Made to bring misery, made to create suffering on other heads.
Bane, tormentor.
One is the clay, one is the blade.
Carving each other's future by molding each others present, burning our paths into one another. From the dust we came and dust we return, forged of carbon, hard as steel, soft as milk, wailing into our mouths and sobbing into our faces. Feeling ourself turning to ash in front of us. Spiraling outward downward through the gravity well like tornado breath.
Watch and singe, wait and pray, kiss the bullet, say a silent prayer to get through tomorrow without the pain of yesterdays faded haunt.
Feel the fathers bloody smile widen behind your head, the cold dusty hands of mothers on our shoulders, urging us onward, forward, toward...nothing at all.
The divine wind, the laughing kamikaze, spill my guts onto the ground and the blood won't wash away my shame, the fire won't burn away the blame. One would have it no other way, it is as the creator, shed the skin, feed the jackal, laugh like the hyena as one eats the rabbit.
One is anything asked of it, one is in flux, it can wear as many thorns in it's face as requested. As long as it's my knife sticking from the orbital, my bat that shatters the back; then I can wear all the burden of the conscience birthed to me.