And all of these days they pass like water. Should I even tighten the grip of my hand?. I get the sense that we're all chasing after. The same simple thing that I don't understand.
So like your. Father in the face and blood. Terrified and cold. And whispers. The coming of a cleansing flood. For you. . You hide your. Filthy hands from all of us.
Shove me out to see. The sea. The quiet of December. To the deep I turn. . From the wreck I bless. This mess. For what I can remember. Your ghost I burn.