Standing, but leaning
wounded, still steering:
I have lost before I found.
When we spit in each other's mouth will we fix what we forgot about? Constantly running uphill,
feet buried in the sand.
Drifting, I'm parting, counting the hours, the weeks and the months - a scythe in its shed.
(Drifting, I'm parting) In this constant December I'm losing my senses.
I'm doing just fine.
For what is our's to keep, I ignore all but me. I'll try to figure it out, please bear with me. A body of men.
Break me, break my isolation.
(Break me) Cave my ribs, teach me confidence.
I have lost before I found.
When we spit in each other's mouth will we fix what we forgot about? Constantly running uphill,
feet buried in the sand. Drifting, I'm parting, counting the hours, the weeks and the months - a scythe in its shed in this constant December.
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