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Ravage the fruit, O' my brother.

From the garden of vindication.

Tasting the skin, like vinegar,

we fall from the pillar of mercy.

You whore of want, you feast of dirt.

We are gluttons for the sky.

Cough up your last breath

and grasp onto no one.

Our fiery eyes shall scourge the earth

of the spoils of you.

Cry now,

tears that run gashes in your pretty face.

There nothing,

not even the spoils of you.

In deepest summer the flowers cover up

what was left of me.

I know the seasons, they change out of the

swords that protrude from the

spoils of you.