Seventeen men lift a cow towards the sky, the wind howled briefly but still no reply, the cow rolls back down with some bruises and thuds, we've been running up that hill praying for floods, call it a habit of love, or an olympic sport, I've been striving for virtue and coming up short, we'll rise to that peak morning to morning, utter whispers of relief as the clouds begin pouring.
We all know it was luck, or a product of chance, we still gather round in circles and join in a dance, all the feathers we've plucked, coins, Pharaohs, burning of flesh, frightens the scarecrows, the cows broken bones, rest on a throne, I've been striving for virtue but going alone, a toad gave me this wart, "keep it safe from harm, before I depart, let me see the pits of your arms."
When the crows finally came, the robins woke and sputtered, choked on their song, their grief could not be uttered, in tune or in verse or any old structure, couldn't put it in a hearse, and call it my mother, it's fleeting and fast, covered in barbed wire, that's dripping like sap, our from the choir, if I have only one thing before you depart, is I've been striving for virtue, and falling apart.
A dude who makes tunes and writes things sometimes, follow me on the grum for song posts and letterboxd for movie thoughts. Also comprises one half of Ishroyale.
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