A wing in the wheat, no blood.
The tank's nearly empty
and no one's pruning the family tree.
This isn't a good idea. We ought to worm.
I know a field where love was made,
it came out screaming,
hungry as heaven for the eyes of hell,
hell for the mythical liquor tit.
The mess milk's made.
To put a dream in the oven
and listen to it sing.
Stone: the sky that fell so hard.
Quartz: the record of where
the angels fought back.
Belief: mending a broken wing.
In the ledger of why we stuck together,
there was no mention of diamonds.
I taste fate every time I swallow.
I spit at taunting death and hear
a star in my head say thank you.