the fear is growing there in the candlehouse. like a spreading serpent, tentacled and silent. we hear the speak of the angel as she settles on down to hallowed earth, saying, "Begin those labors of contentment and ease." as she walks forward, slowly. or is it the wind? chiming through the mobile composed of drifted wood? you ask a question... collecting shells along the pebbled beach cannot have paved the way for this afternoon's fright. oh no... although our eyes find acute solitude while affixed on the oyster shell. the vision all around. enveloping the shell is indeed a chaotic slaughter of color and black definition. there is an explosion, a crashing rain, and a collapse of earth. burning white as sun bleached sand on the eyes of the metallic incense. the snow is beginning to fall. many particled and infinite. the snow is meeting the hardended clay and sand. many particled and infinite. in many instants of transformational kissing, the snow meets the creek. there is a man trudging his shattered way along the far side of that creek. moving closer, we see that the man has been beaten and bloodied. although it is well into the early hours of darkness, we see that the man is a black man. an African who has been enslaved. an African who has been enslaved and broken from his mother's side. a human being dragging frozen iron chains and ankle braces through the near freezing water of the creek. earlier he had made the decision that frozen feet are better than feet ripped worn. ripped and shredded worn by the mouths of crazed bloodhounds. so now he trudges. a curse can be heard coming from the man's palsied lips. candlehouse. like a spreading serpent, tentacled and silent. we hear the speak of the angel as she settles on down to hallowed earth, saying, "Begin those labors of contentment and ease." as she walks forward slowly. or is it the wind? or is it just the wind chiming through the mobile? a curse can be heard coming from the man's palsied lips. the snow will soon be collecting on the ground. and when that happens, the hunters won't even need the aid of the tracking dogs anymore, but they'll keep them. you can hear them say, "ain't nothing like a nigger before the dog..." damn the snow. inspired and driven by his hallowed sister moon. breaking this container as the dogs break the container. coccoon. i am alive. after its recession there is a deepness to the tide. after a life of spirit's tangibility has died. after the lungs. after the cold. after the cold when they poison their heads deep. like the spring. as afterwards the words still ring. as afterwards the words still ring.
Lyrics submitted by penitenziagite