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Trachea

from The New Gospel by Haunt

/

lyrics

I wore the rags as a reminder. Garbage collecting for funeral trash. Eight pieces laid out in chronological order. The cause of death marred and manipulated. I tread heavy on the two’s and ten’s. The chair of choice unstable but then again my mind melts at a slower pace till I forget my name, I forget my place.

Grab the rope that you forgot. Praise the fiber, thank the knot. Kiss the river. Coiled wrought. Quicksand phantom. Body fought. Conduit cut in narrative. Paper dyed for appearances. Jaw line severed or did you care? But it doesn’t really matter when I’m hanging from the ceiling. There’s no cure for depression trends. I give up. I don’t hope. I just let it end. Was it the noose culture vignette that made everyone realize they’re better off dead? This is possession through the garden roads. No one to guard you from the bitter cold. Did your tongue run dry when the wounds got old? I won’t pretend to lick the salt from your palms.

Now I’m beating my head against the wall of gods. Manic, I walk. Fortunate moth. “Cut it out”. Cornered currents. Damaged roses. Worn feathers quell, perched for the thrill. Call rings again. “Please stop the kick”. It's you I’m afraid of. Shadows unstitched.

credits

from The New Gospel, released October 28, 2014

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Haunt Baltimore, Maryland

melancholy cult

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