Abattoir

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True Summit

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Broken street lamps hang deflated
All thrashed limp by the tides,
It's all cast in amber
Relics, from when the lights went out.

We stand hemorrhaged, we kneel unwound
And set fire to yesteryear
"It's a modern plague," your mother said,
We lack spools for our bleeding threads

The parlor windows are awash in a
Rorschach menagerie, a silhouette foam
Threadbare, another bodice waits for morning
Screaming blue murder

And the fabric's worn and the holes are still showing
And the rain-swept avenues are burning up in the flood
We all fell about that parlor
And we spoke too slowly to hear

I sit on these vinyl floors, the mirror's laughing
I dance with my boots on
and pretend I don't care about anyone
But the morning is still

And the urge to kill is a delicate one
But a wishful thought could change you
But I let the fear take hold
I let go, and let the sickness take hold.

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