This is the castle in the sky, the other side of the hill
This is barred windows and a barbed-wire fence that dwarfs even the sun
This is the ill-fated watchtower: a mystery until it wasn’t

I never wanted to know the smell of bone so intimately
(any chance we’d ever had was poisoned from the start)
Anger, anger, anger - it coats these walls like pitch
(it should’ve worked, I swear it should’ve worked)
Goose-flesh tears so easily but it scars into stone (it melts even easier, but then turns to lava)

I never would’ve believed that God himself lived in cobwebbed corners (wasted my whole life praying to the patron saint of carrying on)
I never would’ve believed that I could physically hunger for light
(we slept in tents and built the walls that would hold us captive)

I should be mourning the days I meandered away