She comes in waves.
In vibration, pulsating;
In a silken grave.
Writhing, in pain and in pleasure;
Gyrations, a grind of leisure.
Bucking in the saddle;
Riding hard, and giving pressure.
On the range, right at home;
One who meets the measure

What man under modernity, is free?
Comparative to the peasantry preceding
We must seem to be
Shackled to a strange form
Of self-induced slavery

Quicker to bite the barrel,
Than pull the trigger.
The weight of life,
Sharper than the edge of a knife
But still lighter than the hammer.
The call of night, of ill light;
The difference between
Hellish damnation, and heavenly ascension.

Continuity and infinity,
Why they have to be
Is beyond me.
The end of all things, I
Wish I were lucky enough to see.
But more than that,
I wish I were free.

Winter child,
Drink the drink your mothers made.
Eat the bread your fathers gave; and
Step, one foot already in,
To an early grave.

There are many things that make me feel
Feel like my existence is a burden
But you make me believe otherwise
You make me feel like I belong

Alone
But I won't be, forever.
This feeling will go, too
Like you.