Breaks and fractures feed
Syncope dreams
Where a covert man with hatchet rage
Whittles away.
He looks me dead in the eye,
But still lets me hide.
And I awake to seven cold mistakes.
Well, this can't be right.
The tide swings red.
All sinews torn,
Dissections have made their beds.
Cut parts appearing,
Heads I know backstroke
Up and down the creek.
Swinging, swinging
I miss the ringing
The pressure in my ears.
It's all flooding back.
Swinging, swinging
I miss the ringing
The pressure in my ears.