Shrine of The Crows - Wither And Bloom

There’s a garden growin’ in the mud tonight, Roots like serpents twistin’ in the candlelight. The air smells thick, blood and perfume, That’s the price when you wither and bloom. Frogs preach psalms through the mangrove choir, Ghostlight hums like a funeral fire. Every seed’s a spell, every petal a wound, And the swamp knows when you wither and bloom. Wither and bloom, child, In the mire where the dead still croon. All that’s buried takes root in tune, Wither and bloom, wither and bloom. There’s a lady in the reeds hummin’ low, Feeding her flowers with what she knows. Every prayer’s just rot reborn, Every saint’s another thorn. The alligators keep the gate, They grin wide at the preacher’s fate. The vines creep close, the air consumes, That’s how the living learn to bloom. Wither and bloom, child, In the mire where the dead still croon. All that’s buried takes root in tune, Wither and bloom, wither and bloom. In the mire where the dead still croon. All that’s buried takes root in tune, Wither and bloom, wither and bloom. The swamp don’t die…it’s just arcane, Turns your bones to soil, your sin to rain. Moss grows thick where the holy once knelt, And the roots remember every pain you felt. Wither and bloom, child, In the mire where the dead still croon. All that’s buried takes root in tune, Wither and bloom, wither and bloom. The air tastes faint of sage and bone, Ghosts of pollen, spells half-grown. A thousand mouths in the leaves exhale, Breathing secrets through the veiled. So come lay down in the green decay, Let the river wash your breath away. Death hums soft, life resumes, That’s the curse of wither and…