| By the landfill I rest
|
| I burn their clothing before I dig into the ground
|
| I am Janus-faced denial with vines
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| you’re gonna wish you hadn’t run
|
| Clarity is calling me
|
| I hear the hums of tiny beating drums
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| I feigned umbrage at my bruising fist
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| you’re gonna wish you hadn’t run
|
| And with these trinkets pale of moon
|
| senescent charms become a bludgeon of wrinkles
|
| when I nurse your tired heart
|
| For every time you hear the strain
|
| of lullabies collapsing
|
| walk towards the echo and let it hold you trembling
|
| Their gourds are punctured easily
|
| amnesia fumes in little twists of silk
|
| induce this multistrobe with melody
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| you’re gonna wish you hadn’t run
|
| I sing here at the seedy urn
|
| my father taught me when I was young
|
| you wear the tattered fringe of hangnail regalia
|
| you’re gonna wish you hadn’t run
|
| And with these trinkets pale of moon
|
| senescent charms become a bludgeon of wrinkles
|
| when I nurse your tired heart
|
| For every time you hear the strain
|
| of lullabies collapsing
|
| walk towards the echo and let it hold you trembling |