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1. Scrying


2. The Joyless Parson

The joyless parson wallows in his inadequate shrine: a slanted, yellow dungeon a face zambonied into submission, disfigured by rapid snow and penetrating sunlight with tender, gray eyes, an uninhabited moon, harassed by flurries of wind which whirl and flash their gums,
reveal their genie biceps to proclaim victory over a senseless, vacant enemy.

The head which hangs below his form, is a mouth stuffed full of frisbees, rendered mute. The contaminated air which enters his nostrils, escapes through the stem of his neck, so his cells are breathless, sustained unwillingly by a contemptuous life-giver who remains
forever unwanted.

In the light of twisted stars, he walks on conjoined arms, to the auction of souls where devotees in the regalia of mites, circulate their treason to new generations perform the pantomime, branding initiates with energetic impressions engravings of sorrow, the fresh
man's shadow: the mark of the butchers guild absorbing essence into the pillars of a marshland palace, forever unanimated.

In denial of their black-box scrying, he plunges into visions of calm pastures where porches are caressed by growing, limitless grass, which flirt with, then shatter gaugeless heating meters. He tumbles headlong into the jagged shadows of tropical trees, to fluidly
tremble in the sand, discover deep, unending sleep and fantastic lies well worth repeating.

3. Mourn

It is all one, sustained, resonant scream, masked in gestures of condemning kindness. The seeds he's nurtured behave as boastful adulterers, waterless gullies which cackle during night's inhalation. The centered brahman with a heart of madness, his ecstasy earned, but
undelivered lingering in the heavy, hypnotic moonlight, a bewildered fragment of substance a frail, diseased swan, deprived of grace, which saunters through traumatized flowers whose pedals endure the drizzling of napalm and the smoke which billows from the furnace of

A cloth clutched across his face, repulsed by obscene horrors dressed in blandness and neutrality...

4. Wailing Wind


5. Void Of Course

...the brush of a coarse drape against an open wound, which will seal itself in wilted skin and plummet into a mine of violent isolation, where the oracles are swallowed, broken teeth and transformed into rigid, immovable stone.

The sage brush in the pit of his throat, guards against the output of hope and he maniacally dances in a river of depraved, life-denying conclusions whose tributaries spread deprivation and the mangled shadows of his flailing, barbarous limbs flickers of weak, damp
electricity in a condemned building whose tenant brandishes bouquets of unnatural deadness and rests in slabs of seconds.

Cross-eyed from dementia, veins either frigidly inactive or pulsating uncontrollably, he quivers in each complicated moment as spiders graze upon his shoulder, extract his blood in the truth of daylight and he yields to annihilation's crawl

On clear nights he dissipates into thousands of salmon-colored specs and plasters his body to a remote stone wall, to hear the faint sounds of a pipe organ which with each pressed pedal, resuscitates his tired lungs with vibrant air crumbling the prisons of cacophonous
thought, pausing the clamor of exhausted shoes flooding his garden of embitterment

But when the sensation has diminished, he feels unworthy of pleasure a dragon whose heart has bursted from guarding alone a cache of treasure which no one values and no one visits.

Omens appear above me, threading the borders of reality and boundless chaos the stirring evidence of our dialogue, a cross-dimensional collage pasted by stable, determined hands, which expand and creak like aging floors intent on sharing the pains of growth.

6. Caress Of Vines

The ram, by nature, is a wild and courageous animal, lonely in lonely places, whereas when tamed and made to lie down in green pastures, nothing is left but the docile, cowardly, gregarious and succulent beast.

7. Circulated Treason

A hawk glides away from a flock of pursuing geese who pester her, first as precaution and then for the lust of coordinated murder I see her muscles expand as beaks excavate her feathers, submerge in her veins and puncture her proud, outstretched body, until she contorts
and falls from the sky a broken umbrella spewed from the churning gears of a freightship coerced into a stagnant ocean, a waveless oblivion, void of course.

I await the same ending, a powerful sprint from the red-eyed ritualists: patrons of the rotting gate, blessed architects of delumination who lasso the sun so piously worshiped, to quarantine light in wretched temples knowledge disemboweled, its noble core discarded for
immediate fruit

Ignorance is an expired sedative an indiscriminate gallop into the clamp of predators who cheer the fools that embellish their cages while whistling in naked retrograde.

In her fumbling descent, I saw your pleading eyes: the extinction of my imperfect idol.

I stood there bruised, a shattered mandolin in the desolation of the rubble And I burrowed outwardly, a sullen elephant, unconvinced of this outlandish liberation And it came for me: the healing cloud, at an agonizing and casual pace Its face in a permanent stupor,
pulseless and maniacal I grated my slabs of essence onto the surface of the earth and it made no progress in my direction It stared pale and mute as I violently, inwardly rattled, like a bloated cantaloupe in the exposed sun, a cluster of coarse feathers separated from
the wing, powerless. I felt the desecration of primordial chaos: the furious, scalping, wailing wind that reduced me, nearly to bone. Then the rain, that soaked my clothes into uselessness, idolized shelter and sent the spider-flicker of fingers onto my exhausted
eyelids, soothing everything.

But when the sensation has diminished, I feel unworthy of pleasure a dragon whose heart has bursted from guarding alone a cache of treasure which no one values and no one visits.

Andrew Ransom ‒ Bass
Kent Wilson ‒ Cello
Justin Wharton ‒ Drums, Percussion
Steven Jarrett ‒ Guitars, Vocals Keyboards
Geoffrey Ficco ‒ Vocals

Lyrics written by Stephen Jarrett.

Thanks to dust.harvesting for sending these lyrics.

Submits, comments, corrections are welcomed at webmaster@darklyrics.com


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