April night-time
And we run like mussles through the stagnant nodes of man
Blood-bridges lean towards the gaping synapses
To disarm the stars within us

Hornet hive-dark
Severed wings in vainless beating
Buzz out from an inferno of fangs
To disarm the stars within us

We should have been
So much more by now
Too dead inside
To even know the guilt

Waining ring-deep
A halo of thorns
Sips now down in sheets of sharp silver
To disarm the strs within us

We should have been
So much more by now
Too dead inside
To even know the guilt

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