The part of the living that is dead
Drained of colour, lifeless rotting on the limb
Could be the key, so what happens next?
We kill the vein that pumps our curiosity
For want of realization
Numb, suffocated, accepting concentration of the meaning prescribed
The protocol must be observed
Mythic faux tradition grafted onto this body
Grand Parasitic Farce repeated to grind tragedy into the fresh rain dirt
To lay, nourished, untended, and breeding bitter fruit soon to fall again
The sweet rotting display that won’t reconcile with your constitution
So we perform again, constricting the arteries of this heart with hope
Above and beyond observation of evidence
We wash our feet, our hands our face
This time, could this operation, sustain the edifice; give it flesh, muscle, life and build our future?
Whether playing physicians, dramatists, cultivators, all we want is for this tourniquet faith we tie to come good.