So many dead bugs in a tin Their little legs stretched towards the light Heavenbound, bearing rosaries and minimal sound Nothing I could say for myself
Salt gathering in your eyes I love that which I can murder I love that which is ground down with me Hellfire full of misguided martyrs and unheard minds There is nothing you can do
The bugs are decomposing as I speak That I am sorry for everything Should’ve done nothing and thought of only dreams Spun a tale round you, holiness and humanity alike Divinity made touchable But then killable by right
So many ways to murder you and pull you down An abyss to hug you, crush you, tethered to my teeth Fences strung of bones and skulls muttering words To cats, to dogs, to bothersome birds As they chirp of the moon chasing sun chasing doom Stars hung between, a veil of canopy and futility A bed made of hope, not luxury Flowers of scope, not sweet amnesty A religion swelled in children’s mouths and your gums You preaching to me of all accursed beasts Like it matters, my relief, my hands, my shaken belief
So many dreams, but oh Incomplete, the whole is, incomplete they live But perfect, the whole is, so perfect you weep To have a tin of anything and perceive it so dearly
-by Lane Key :]
