---

The clock is wreckage.

The hands that told every scream

run their agony between the walls of my shame.

I let it find the whirlwind's eye and crush the tide

between earth and sky.

I'm patched in the icing of a cold winter's memory.

Calling for a soul to arrive.

A purpose to keep me alive.

The clock is wreckage.

Every hour I thought I left turning back again.

These hands that held every moment run their nails

directly through my skin.

And as I let it find the source of this whirlwind life,

Rushing to consume my spine,

Caught in the backseat of what drunken suicide

this poison drives...

Frost dresses me between the threads of a cold winter's memory.

Callouses begin to form between the folds of my flesh.

I can feel my grasp on sanity begin to slip.

Open, reopen these wounds.

I must release them, release them.

Let them pour out before my eyes.

So these souls may find a home in the graves

that I've, in the graves that I've laid.

This isn't who I am, this is not your game.

Burning bridges are drowning victims that your existence erased.

I'd cut my limbs to shreds of they could feed the lungs of

the ones I've touched.

Alone with the deterrent, familiar eyes

keeping me paralyzed.

I fade away to older days in the single memory.

I wish I never memorized.

In the single memory I wish I never memorized.

Callouses begin to form

between

the folds of my flesh.

I can feel my grasp on

sanity

begin to slip.

Hope is still in love with what's lost.