Virus Parched Rapids
Prophets call across burnt dunes your name spells rusted carnival tunes The sand hides hives of nested wombs where fossils used to gallop Watchers of the morning sift Shifting ripples eye the world where silence is knowledge and creation is consumed in infinite truth
What sound would I make here Would we be us when there is nothing left? When minerals dry and turn to dust the grains will form new ancient artworks and the wind will roll up and down the dawn
Choirs of drifting trials - denials of the great fires that drew the gravel into his veins He's the far away hills that swim into manes of silt
Strap your thoughts to this engine that rears itself skyward as the nimbus numbs itself to desire Can we live with this sadness that only rots inwards Old rope that rows against the current Twisted with the years