The ache of infinite collisions, of the streak, the bleak beyond calling. 

[a whispered hum]

And we suffer the drone of those who encircle the void. We plant seeds of fatigue and dream of empty corridors, strange sunsets in the marshlands.

[your rock n' roll fever] 

I've been to California. I've loosened my tongue. I've swallowed the ash of your filthy temple. And yet... 

[the pining persists, baby]

The crescendo comes to us. 

[a sliver of night falling forever]

The way your hand has grown rough with use, bones and skin erupting to our fatal bed of madness. 

[stroking the strands of your white hair]

I've laid down under moons and tears of the possible, strained to grasp realities that hover at the fringe of finality. 

[gone]

To reach and become. 

[fingers tremble]

To wreck the ground of being.

[veins pulse blue waves]

And suffocate idleness. 

[move, lover]

Burn the trees with your spit. 

[and swirl my love to a sigil]

Lap at the glands of tomorrow.

[your animal tongue wagging]

What lies before you is larger than the eye resting bruised in its socket.

[we've blown the machines to puddles]

Cradle the beating heart. 

[rest, darling]

And slash the ever after, ever after.