I shake the hands, of all the pines
As they see me down the line
The green roads turning beige
My eyes covered in a viscous haze

My heart is setting the table
Inside my chest for the craddle
Of little leeches and mouths to feed
And abandon all my hope and creed

But the trees are looking down
And they sigh with heavy frowns
At the state I am going to end
The bone of my back I’ll bend

But the skies are lavender and blue
And my feet seem to always go through
The thickest mud, the sludge and raptor teeth
While the knife is on my throat, and I hold the sheath

A specter watching by, no advice
With the abyss reading, the mourning concise
As I walk this path alone
Knowing of not any home