After the skies clearMeet me in my head but let the hours pass bylet the storm drift offit's hard to talk while the cloudspour their rain into my skull.
Freedom livesFreedom lives, renewed, when we find chains unbrokenand our will to fight.
I am your coffin builderYou are made of lines and I am your coffin builderyou plan to endure, in memoryand you tell me how, while we speakour steady decay is progressingeven as lights still dance in our skulls.I have fine wood, for youand a comfortable eternitya fine wooden case, to hold youthe best that could buythe best, that eventually, will still succumbto the negligence of humanity(we've never invented somethingimmortal,to shelter our frailty)You glance at any reflective surfacebut fail to catch yourselfto catch whatever it is, looking back at you(with morbid eyes and your typicalbovine glassiness)you look into the vacant face of youand y
I like it a lot.