---

laid in my grave,

cotton sheets wrap me tight.

the mausoleum holds back the wind,

but it’s always right outside.

I hold fires made from you,

in the palm of my hands.

showing me that theres no way back.

a crippled frame,

a husk of a man,

this house is black.

as the trees sway back and forth,

the hum of the world is deafening.

there is no escape,

as the sky crushes me.

these memories paint a better life

but the blood is spreading through the cloth.