we dance like this matters
we dirty our hands with their lives
press on, press on, lives unwashed and clean
the world of the living becomes the world of the dead
their books and bones, their paper thrones
never burn our hearts and stones
we stain the stained, we wake the deceased
yet still the choir sings to their crooked priest
to a god of filth and wretched bones
who feeds on their faith and wrecks their homes
our words reach deaf ears
though the fire we hold
melts the heart
and breaks the soul
a pile of hopes and our bag of dreams
amid dead hands and shackled freedoms
this underfed season and dreary weather
have fed our bones and left us together
a work in progress...
the end/beginning.
14 years ago
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