No one's home
And there's snow on the ground
I dissolve with eyes shut closed
Transcend flesh
Bitter taste of words I haven't said
Programmed stress
Meditate on hands from which you're fed
Bodies rot to make room for babies
Plants breathe out and we breathe in
And days bring sons and daughters
Transcend flesh
Bitter taste of words I haven't said
Programmed stress
Meditate on hands from which you're fed
