Paroles Eight Paths Knit Midnight Catharsis de Devar-toi

Textes et Paroles de Eight Paths Knit Midnight Catharsis

if the seer whose rest i torment wears eyes crossed with nine decades aged lament,
then how could that same humble sage suggest a most palmary route for tread.
these paths, they lay strewn before me
and vow each to breathe westward with warm warning.
absorb me gossamers or just please console me like you do the forest's scent of arachnid death.

sing as they did in their dream, these fatidic bells now ring lowly-- a dull droning.
a dull droning like how the following of loose threads seems so drab when each pull reveals a cross-stitched, cloth boundary

sometimes we all hollow our veins and turn pale to forge the sweet myth of love's enchantment
when we're torn like a wise pine's needled skin made frail before the cross-currents of at least four sanguine winds.
six limbs belong to a marred spider suffering from a lifetime's plight through widow's decay.
hastily she hems without reason, hammering at the loose filaments of a faltering web.

even i was aware within the serum of sleep when concious fingers were found guilty of placing a menial stitch.
he who hath tended a bruise has later lost the precious warmth of blood heated with ambition.

compelling are my dried lifelines awaiting this year's coldest sweat
to be streaming in rivers of desire, traversing a palm stretched in lustful regret.
hindsight burns my eyes and scratches from deep beneath my chest,
but the only blame to be dealt for these contagious ravines belongs to my own persistent clawing.

sold a breath for an oak bough perch,
where i wade through an owl's river of senile stares.
just tasting that wind as the sky knits stars
into the cloths of midnight catharsis.
count the seconds, they're fading faster at each day's death.
wath this skylight division, the sun is setting like flesh fed fangs into a clenched horizon wrist.
all heads will soon raise again towards the waning moon
as she sings of her logic in a silver song.
reflecting, her words are water, and her words are calm.

bottled fumes of digression are now reopened to expose,
to reveal the doleful flights of all those wooden arrows
bound towards the glittering gray eyes of an ailing gale. (whose lashes bridge the incision of clear sky)
a feather plucked as splinters bored the carcass rot of an albatross
strung christened around my neck,
victim to the bow of a sightless archer- numb to subtle change.
even when we finally take on our new forms
we still retain the stench of "same old shit",
writhing underneath the aesthetic decay of sun parched and wilting skin.

is this longing for a nocturnal kiss really the wounded sound
of demure temptation concealed in the fading shadows of a tired twighlight haze?

fuck i don't know, but i'm sure i'll find out
when red mists clutter the countenance of Iverleigh's lampost to watch their torsos burn down.
La belle epoque dear, if you dare remove these chains,
forever leaving torch glow carving the syntax of pseudo-enlightenment upon the walls of a lightless cave.

so this is my dull sensation,
these flat lips of stoic content.
how pallor in persuasion when contrasted against the curved mouths of an ambiguous quest
a lumen's breath upon the threshold gives still birth
to an apparition o'er perched a balcony's edge
with seventeen pristine needles, all connected by common thread
and strategically placed like stiff soldiers upon his strained neck.

gilded ennui forces falses extensions.
stagnant, am i not underneath this impending light?
tonight my knees will be chewed into cobble-stone streets
as i'm led by the most beautiful hands i think i've ever seen.
and just when flat visions had finally begun to ripen
nightfall's charcoal fingertips rubbed my eyes for hours past blindness.
am i really all that cursed to find still nights so very pensive
in their prolonged and forlorn impermanent existence?
if our lungs refuse to say empty any longer,
will we just cry like those haunted towers leaking cacophony through their choirs.
if there's just one thing i've learned it's to love what you earn.
stand up straight by the mirror, stand up straight but alone.
absorbing the reflected, refracting prediction.
cold like tin shadows and thin as the wind.
tracing this jagged shoreline over and over
where sand first met water and split at the seam.
whispers released from a blackened shell of the sea:
" sway with these ghosts just to stay like these ghosts"

drifting, floating backwards slowly.
fading, scratching, grasping, calling,
but noone'es voice is ever there to follow
in these hollowed halls of shallow water.
breathing beating down my neck,
synesthesia destroyed my senses.
static pulses through the faceless frame
of a cadaverous, moaning, mourning wreck.

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