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The texture of the soul is a liquid |
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That casts a vermillion flood. |
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From a wound carved as an oath; |
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It fills the river bank a sanguine fog. |
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These arms were meant to be lost! |
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Hacked, severed and forgotten. |
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The texture of time is a whisper |
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That echoes across the flood. |
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Its hymn resonates from tree to tree, |
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Through every sullen bough it sings. |
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These boughs were said to be lost! |
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Torn, unearthed and broken. |
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Fear. |
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Earth to flesh, flesh to wood, |
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Cast these limbs into the water. |
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Flesh to wood, wood to stone, |
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Cast this stone into the water. |
