The soil is now only as black as you can make it
and that can be
earth.
Pushing the flowers up from the ground
is a job for the dead.
Looking at the scripture of the dying...
that thousands of years,
burn ugliness of itself
as a beautiful
flower.
What a weed, what
a ugly leaf. To leave
with only
pain upon
those yet to green.
I\'ll staple myself to a tree before
I\'ll wear it\'s bark. I\'ll dye the Sun before I\'ll
cast out a spell on the soil.
- a black halo -
Death replaces every mustard seed that you planted in your misplaced head.
The blessing of a life that was never mine, I accuse thee of sealing my fate now.
From the depths of unholy waters to the heavy heavens.
That grows from the interloped folly of your distant cousin of disfigure.
I\'ll sell you down the river instead. And turn the tides to the crest that burns
in favor my gods your blessing shall always be a curse to me.