In The Nervous Light Of Sunday
Whispers invoke the artists
Of this tragically seemless, ill fated tapestry,
Blistered fingers are tending their loom.
She collects the strands to braid into life.
Logging the weft of an ageless, woven infinity,
Countless raw fibers are clawing the frame.
A woman's work is never done,
But the final stitch has got to come,
And so three witches contend to slice the very last thread.
That you curse, curse constantly.
That you curse, curse constantly.
That you curse, curse constantly.
That you curse, curse constantly.
But nothing's immortal, and comfort is not guaranteed.
A yearling who bears our sincere passions
Is chosen, frozen and quivering,
Like a thread in the wake of a blade.
So we compromise, so we sacrifice.
Compromise nothing, but that which secures a comfortable life.
Risk as the indication of a healing sacrifice.
Destroy the altar whose boundaries tides will never exceed,
Ignite the pyres underneath a sedated mythology.
Five decades his lifetime,
And his life's work is just fading scratches in stone.
She tends the numerals, counting fingers, counting her toes.
Keeping track of the time racing, years wasting.
Dance to the sound of his weight bearing, back breaking.
Infinite ages the length of this quilt's making.
And we dance, we dance in the stronghold.
That you curse, curse constantly.
That you curse, curse constantly.
That you curse, curse constantly.
That you curse, curse constantly, of the needle's sheen.
Do you feel this thin strand resting in a pinch?
That's the thread that you curse, curse constantly.
Do you feel this thin strand resting in a pinch?
That's the thread that you curse, curse constantly.
Do you feel this thin strand resting in a pinch?
That's the thread that you curse.
An eternal patch on a quilt that hangs from a wall,
In a throw frought with our decay...
An eternal patch on a quilt that hangs from a wall,
In a throw frought with our decay...
An eternal patch on a quilt that hangs from a wall,
In a throw frought with our decay...
An eternal patch on a quilt that hangs from a wall,
In a throw frought with our decay...
From six states away,
Five years of guilt postmarked four days before my escape.
All I ever asked was for a clean break.
In the first nervous light of the day,
Collecting the novels whose scribes sought to keep me contained.
My dad's favorite novel on top of the pile,
In the self-concious first light shake the memory of his smile,
Igniting these volumes,
Igniting these volumes I'm warmed by the flames.
Alter the deafening earthen tones...
Alter the deafening earthen tones...
In the nervous light,
I dance in the nervous light and I'm warmed by the flames.
Dance to the sound of his weight bearing, back fucking breaking.
Fucking breaking.
Alter the pitch of his weight bearing, back breaking,
Dictate the pitch of my weight bearing, back breaking,
Alter the tone of your weight bearing, back breaking,
We can mend all the seams that were torn during our backs slowly breaking.
In the nervous light of Sunday.
In the nervous light.
In the nervous light of Sunday.
In the nervous light.
In the nervous light of Sunday.
In the nervous light.
In the nervous light of Sunday.
In the nervous light.
The nervous light of Sunday.
In the nervous light.
The nervous light of Sunday.