Crackling words break the backs of silence. Words. Words. Screamed from the mouths of eternal horses. Upon the backs of men seeking a path from hell. There's no way to know. There's no way to tell. Is the world's getting smaller? Or are we getting too big?
Wars fought over oil paint blood in the sand, while the whole planet smiles, "Ain't it fine?" "Ain't it grand?" The cracking of the globe, splitting faces in two. With some halves in the "Us's" and others in "You's". Rising from the pheonix's ashes to smush oily words upon the gate.
For babes are crying and winter's dying when love is left to rot. No more feathered wings to cradle it. No more tender hands to keep it. There is only the swollen pregnant moon in the gnashing yellow night.