i made a pact not to sleep through the end.
|
all of the dreamers are stuck in their beds.
|
fight off the attraction to always play dead
|
i'm tortured by white noise in half hour sets.
|
ears ringing.
|
your mouth ran for miles
|
but hasn't gone anywhere.
|
you're lost.
|
|
i heard the word on the street and it means nothing to me,
|
so how do you like me now?
|
|
where's your passion?
|
the renaissance man is a thing of the past.
|
to you it's fashion.
|
dress up don't address what keeps us from resting.
|
the jackals circle for the feast
|
i try to fight it off,
|
but it's consuming me.
|
|
the rapture has only begun
|
(while you sleep,
|
they watch you breathing)
|
and you can bet it gets worse
|
when the moon crashes into the sun
|
(while you dream,
|
both ends are burning)
|
pray for one more chance
|
(they will steal the air
|
from your lungs)
|
in the back of the hearse.
|
overturned as your insides prolapse
|
(wake before
|
before it's too fucking late)
|
|
everyone has a skeleton key
|
and everyone rots in captivity
|
and everyone is sleeping off the heat
|
|
you shut the blinds
|
as they cauterize
|
what lives inside.
|
you shut the blinds
|
as they cauterize
|
what lives inside.
|
|
-----------------
|
Starving Artiste
|
| The Bled |
