Ash on the tips of my tools
Shriveling skin you mishear me
Like all of them do
Interrupt the traveling man
Dont pray its all useless
Poor Bastard. Til the end
Cuz God fears his makings
While I waste in places
Where flowers kiss softly
But the people dont grow
Ash on the tips of my tools
I feel stranger to peace.
To the words I claim true
My thoughts placate
Blinding and cruel
I cant walk straight
Unconscious. You problematic fool.
Burn off my fingers
My Thumbs in my sockets
Im Leaving to death
Keep breathing instead











