Harmonic suspension, first-chair, and gold
This is the sound of the end of the world
Sweaters of steel-wool and spring revolutions
The strings in the weave are beginning to loosen
This is the sound of the end of the world
Too late to be evening, time uncontrolled
The strings in the weave are beginning to loosen
He lies in the bed, skin becoming translucent
Too late to be evening, time uncontrolled
Dark rising deeply, sleepless, and cold
He lies in the bed, skin becoming translucent
Throat full of something too thick in the moment
Dark rising deeply, sleepless, and cold
Skin stretched too tight on his hopeful skull
Throat full of something too thick in the moment
He watches twin sunrises bobble like ornaments
Skin stretched too tight on his hopeful skull
The blue on the Earth has become its own pulse
He watches twin sunrises bobble like ornaments
Caught in the gravity of something immense
The blue on the Earth has become its own pulse
Gradient gray like the snuff of sweet candles
Caught in the gravity of something immense
He pays tribute to God in his newspaper tent