You who have killed our great-grandmothers
with hopes and fears, desires and delusions
men of great sacrifice to our holy allusion
destroy all dreamers with debt and depression
why are lan and doors(?) wondering about the sores
blossoming purple on your skin
she will disintegrate into the subway grate
she's made of dust and blows off in the wind
you who have killed all people of sacrifice
wandering the lands far and near
your hopes will beat you down
until you're face down in the ground
choking on the dust of your own ways
the bed that holds you has held other sickness too
you're one of many who have come before
her breath on your shoulder reminds you of your mother
her song you have heard many times before
you who have used your body as a vessel
fear and greed blossom in your chest
you try to hold, desperate, to a holy allusion
that blows like a feather in the wind
the dreams and the feelings you started revealing
are stacked so high they'll fall from your mouth
othing can hold them down
ot chains anchored to the ground
the rust of which will show up on your skin
you who are made of stars and ambition
what will you drink when the river runs dry
and no god on hire can make rain fall from the sky
your status can't quench your thirst
a pinprick of hatred turns into a green star
and shines acidic in the northeast sky
her ghost came to your bed to see if she could forgive
and while you died she sang a lullaby