It happens with all the holes and wounds: they grow their own face, mend their gaps, heal their rifts — those new skills of yours are but entities that emerge: to grant shelter, to stand guard, replace the old, thicken the crust, weather this human storm — through and through.

But will the skin ever return to its soil? It linger on forevermore. How tight its grip? How hardened its sappy brooks? When will it nourish those delicate roots anew?

These thoughts arise as doubt breaks free. It pours and flows as I gaze down and lower still. Shadows seep and leak as the wheel spins and drills the soul evermore hollow. Anonymous is our tree of life, but it keeps faces in store.

For it happens with all the holes and wounds: they bleed, they mend, they heal — and what don't they do as I stand here, as I bend, as I kneel — as I carve these seats in shapes of departure. Those skills thicken under my feet like growling tremors.

My past was but a dream — and I'm ready to slide like a crumbling leaf. My weariness is universal. My knowledge heavy. There cannot be a conclusion. I am growing thin.

Let me feed those roots anew.
Through and through.

Sorry but not sorry
For the things that I have done.
Sorry but not sorry
For all the pain under the sun.

　And all the longing to set ourselves apart
　From the will of the masses,
　Though we clearly stand as one.

　And the reticence to play our part
　In building on new bridges,
　Though we clearly need them now.

　　Short story long,
　　Long story short -
　　Sorry but not sorry
　　For writing off this song.

Sorry but not sorry
For all the excuses that I make.
Sorry but not sorry
For not owing back what we take.

　And all the mannerism along which we pretend
　To care so much about the future,
　Though we clearly act for our only sake.

　And the conflicting messages that we must send
　As we aim to **** the messenger,
　Though we clearly all covet his fame.

　　Short story long,
　　Long story short,
　　Sorry but not sorry,
　　For writing off this song.

Sorry but not sorry
For casting off one more blame.
Sorry but not sorry
For the ills that one must name.

　And all the finger-pointing with no concrete action
　As we forget the final hour,
　Though we clearly hear the call

　And all the conflicts that we set in motion
　As we bow to the god of power,
　Though it clearly draws our fall

　　Short story long,
　　Long story short,
　　Sorry but not sorry,
　　For writing off this song.

Where is that hand,
That motherly embrace,
Which comforts in its ****** -
That motherly hand I can trust?

Where is that hand,
That warming caress,
Which eases the nerves -
That cocoon of soft curves?

　　There is no rest anymore
　　In thoughts of exile and escape;
　　My being is shaken to the core,
　　My soul bent under the stress.

Where is that hand,
That soothing absence,
Which cradles you gently -
That silence of calm and mercy?

Where is the hand,
That promise of better days,
Which relieves innocently -
That convincing “don’t worry”?

　　There is no rest anymore
　　In thoughts of exile and escape;
　　My being is shaken to the core,
　　My soul bent under the stress.

There is a god for every thing
There is a god for every thought
There is a god for every spring
There is a god for every drought

I walk amidst their creeping shadows
Swim in the deeps, crawl in the shallows

There is a boat for every sea
And there's a buoy for drowning men

But there ain’t
One god.

There is a crown on every being
There is a staff in every hand
It doesn’t matter what you have seen
It only matters now where you stand

I walk amidst their flickering shadows
Bask in the breeze, dance in tornadoes

There are birds for every wind
And there are wings for broken men

But there ain't
One god.