1. |
t a k i n g
02:33
|
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In the end I’ll be undressed—
they'll take my robes of gross inadequacy,
they’ll call me home—
Under soil I’ll disappear—
they'll take my form of shameful indecency,
they’ll call me home—
In their presence I will fade—
they'll take my lust for endless inconstancy,
they’ll call me home—
I will call them brothers; yea,
in the taking of my flesh—
I will call them sisters; yea,
in the taking of my bones—
I will call them friends.
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2. |
s t e p s
03:12
|
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Pages will fall from my bones—
books of bastardized biography
come flaking from my flesh
and find their binding in the earth.
My veins will form the words—
I feel them curl and crease beneath
my drying parchment skin.
They tear and write in whispers.
A book in every step, sinking,
steps into the history of death,
steps into the sepulchre of life.
Steps into the sepulchre of life.
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3. |
t o w a r d s
02:31
|
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What could I work towards
if I want to work in confidence?
What do I know for sure—
just one day I will disappear.
What could I move towards
if I want to move in confidence?
What do I know for sure—
just one day I will disappear.
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4. |
d e a t h
02:42
|
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I passed a dead crow
lying on the sidewalk—
where does its wing start?
where does its body end?—
would I look so ugly in death?
would I look so ugly in death?
I saw a dead man
passing by a mirror—
where does his mind go?
where does his heart lie?—
would I look so ugly in death?
would I look so ugly in death?
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