lightning bolts come with thunder
(bass, cymbals, snare, and all)
not a religion, not exactly
gods, these messed up boys, these
military wandering flowersouls,
these drugged up wonders. they are
the womb of music, spilling with ink and
teacups and syringes. scar cover their
skin like smoke from their cigarettes.
they smell like sweat and stardust.
planets stampede on their broken bones
and their ruins govern towers. but
they sing and sing,
they eversing. they eversing.
No comments:
Post a Comment