Crop of Bones

Tired little pleas beneath our breath
Some aimed at gods, some aimed at devils
All powered by a quaking chest
We raise our voice and speak in anger
Sometimes righteous, though sometimes cruel
Some scream for money, some scream for power
Some scream just so police don’t shoot
They usually do
What is this life — but building castles
In which we age, in which we die
If someone comes to take your empire
You go outside and end their life
You claim to love with no conditions
You speak your hate behind closed doors
But before long, that door will open
Then all will see what you fight for
We have been warned
A few things —
Be well, sex sells, and fuck twelve. We were all sitting in our cells until the
other shoe fell. They dwell in robes like Pharisees, screaming «carry me.
don’t marry unless you’re straight, white, not fucking and delirious.
«Did we make it to heaven? I don’t feel it. Hatred is woven into this crowd
but I can’t see it. I’m busy watching Jesus with his Black Lives Matter sign
teaching children. I wonder if he knew the future. And if he did was he sad?
If I could’ve seen the future I would’ve cut some ties that I had a little
sooner. I would’ve been a better lover. I would’ve loved a little louder.
I am at a loss for answers, think we might be unimportant — we will live on
sonic roads til Final Breath, and Final Morning. Shifting gears and speeding.
Pivoting and singing, not knowing or caring that we are bleeding.
Shifting gears and speeding. Pivoting and singing, not knowing or caring that
I am bleeding
Please keep my name away from your lips
I’ll keep your name out of my home
You’ve drawn your lines, and made your statements
All that you reap, will be your own
A crop of bones