𝓜𝓲𝓭𝓷𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽 𝓢𝓾𝓷◎

Tonight someone waves farewell from the evening train, by morning he knows he’ll never see his home again. Right now someone gets all six, calls ’em blessed, while someone else signs off his own arrest. Both pass each other on the same short track, not knowing one name runs on both their tags. We drift in loops that can’t be spun, all circles round the midnight sun. Blind thing. Cold thing. Bare thing. Kind thing. No sight. No rage. No wrong. No aim. The sickle splits the static flare, peels pale silk, strips temples bare. It rips the pulse, unbinds the chord, the sickle glides through pen and sword. Good days, gone days, pinned and grim. Waste my wage, into the wind. Yesterday they hailed a solemn prophet’s cause, at dawn they nail his limbs upon the cross. One lifts his banner for the march ahead, next day he’s wrapped in the same instead. Far off a hymn begins to swell, for those who fought and shaped their hell. Cold mouth. Dry tongue. Teeth clamp. Jaw strung. Clap. Done. Midnight sun. The sickle splits the static flare, peels pale silk, strips temples bare. It rips the pulse, unbinds the chord, the sickle glides through pen and sword. Glides through pen and sword, ha-ah. Glides through pen and sword, ha-ah. Glides through pen and sword. Glides through pen and sword. Ah.