| The days are catching up to me
|
| my unconscious fear unbound
|
| Is it time to tailor fit the notion
|
| that come Sunday I’m in the ground?
|
| The obelisk fumes have occupied
|
| emphatically austere
|
| a smelter pile made by the debt collector
|
| where the children should be seen, not heard
|
| Even if there is no way back home
|
| I’m not running away
|
| I’m not running away
|
| I’m not running away
|
| I’m not running away
|
| Can you hear him saber rattling
|
| with bones I’ve left behind?
|
| Obloquy is the bulwark of his implants
|
| am I your son or just a clone?
|
| Dasehra, you were sworn to be
|
| a window to my night
|
| my subterfuge, just branches to the mandrake
|
| where the children should be seen, not heard
|
| Even if there is no way back home
|
| I’m not running away
|
| I’m not running away
|
| I’m not running away
|
| I’m not running away
|
| Under the aegis of cognition
|
| I am dead, I will escape
|
| Engrammic marks of ligature
|
| I am dead, I will escape
|
| Under the aegis of cognition
|
| I am dead, I will escape
|
| Engrammic marks of ligature
|
| am I dead, will I escape?
|
| I’m not running away
|
| I’m not running away
|
| I’m not running away
|
| I’m not running away |