Wolves At The Gate - Lowborn

Baby Blue

I woke in a sweat from a desirous fever in the pocket of yesteryear

Where faults have fallen to some.

I begged not to carry the corpse.

To not be a queer fish in unforgiving hearts.

To not be buried in native clay and preserved for cynicism.

I wish to be a pauper in kind eyes. To feel the gravel beneath my knees.

To wake in a home.

God had sent my calamity into a deep space from which not even in dreams,

Could I ever imagine my escape

Styczeń