Parse Over
I will blooddye the doors of my house
And flood chambers of lung and heart.
I will blooddye the doors of my house
And flood deltas of the vein.
I dig through my navel.
Feel the unravelling of bones
And the deltas of the vein,
Now noosely knotted.
This unspooling body...
What worth is one in this world?
(A hail of nails
In the hardwood)
What good a protector
Who varies in potence?
(The weight of their
Weakness in my weft).
What use a cystem
Enslaved to its shivering?
Unmanned, dismantled
I'll make a tent of my skin.
I'll sever the heartstring
To allow them their run.
I will blooddye the doors of my house
And flood chambers of lung and heart.
I will blooddye the doors of my house
And flood deltas of the vein.
I unspill the thread of my gut.
Tie it in a thresher's hold.
Build the brick of my muscles
I ask you to enshrine my failures.
They are the synbols of man.
I ask you to discard my flesh.
It is the synbol of mud.
I ask you for silence on my soul.
Please see my grave is kept clean.
I ask you for silence on my soul.
I ask you to discard my flesh.
Dipping my palms deep in my well
I withdraw a butcher's tell,
The slickly coagulant gloves.
I smear my prayer, crosswise, on the door.
And flood chambers of lung and heart.
I will blooddye the doors of my house
And flood deltas of the vein.
I dig through my navel.
Feel the unravelling of bones
And the deltas of the vein,
Now noosely knotted.
This unspooling body...
What worth is one in this world?
(A hail of nails
In the hardwood)
What good a protector
Who varies in potence?
(The weight of their
Weakness in my weft).
What use a cystem
Enslaved to its shivering?
Unmanned, dismantled
I'll make a tent of my skin.
I'll sever the heartstring
To allow them their run.
I will blooddye the doors of my house
And flood chambers of lung and heart.
I will blooddye the doors of my house
And flood deltas of the vein.
I unspill the thread of my gut.
Tie it in a thresher's hold.
Build the brick of my muscles
I ask you to enshrine my failures.
They are the synbols of man.
I ask you to discard my flesh.
It is the synbol of mud.
I ask you for silence on my soul.
Please see my grave is kept clean.
I ask you for silence on my soul.
I ask you to discard my flesh.
Dipping my palms deep in my well
I withdraw a butcher's tell,
The slickly coagulant gloves.
I smear my prayer, crosswise, on the door.
Credits
Writer(s): Timothy Pope, Erik Miehs
Lyrics powered by www.musixmatch.com
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