The dust on my hands creates callouses on my palms and fingertips
Traces of tar and disintegration stain the entrails of my guts
I chew the dead skin hoping it\'ll bleed
So far that my heart will stop.
What more can I be denied
That these prints be made scars
To remind me of what has died
And what hasn\'t even been born.
There is a passionate reality - to the point of senselessness
The same reality that conquers the nature of my scorn.
Where can I rest? Where can I hide? That God cannot comfort me
In that He never does smite me without due cause.
The dust falls from the Heavens, cloaking my very being with crystal
And it\'s an unwanted pleasure.
All these things unwanted
Crawl under my skin and tie me together in such a way
That I cannot remember the original web of my veins.
Reality makes cynic of the saints
And nihilists of philosophers
And what reality has made of me
Is what I am not.