[Ink]

To Die and Let Live

We've siphoned the soil of life and chewed away the sky
With these iron claws we've mined away the fruit off all her vines
The air sizzles of it's pain, frying beneath unfiltered light
From the sun, we've no buffer to blanket us from it's might
Dragging time across the ciggarette, watching the ashes fall

This is the end of everything, it's become nothing at all...

He holds the doll gingerly, number 9 is on it's chest
The world? It's inheritance... it will succeed his breath

A stich in time can save from nine, but Nine is where my faith is placed
In a disgraced world unraveling, nothing less will survive our fate
I've suffered many pricks for this and licked the wounds my wife would kiss
If she were here to share the end, we'd lace our hands and she'd be Ten
Flip on the electricity, the lightbulbs glow, adjust settings
Secure the doll with fastenings, and now it's time for life to breed
*Sigh...*
So humanity has come to this... patchwork doll and an old man's last ditch
Will we see eye to button when you're filled with my sole eternal gift?
I run my fingers on it's cotton seams and ponder what the future brings
Of metallic beings and ancestry and the futility of what we've achieved
We drove and flew and sped right through the future, irresponsible
And lept and crept into the desk where God once sat and played his role
Is this to be the second flood? Is Nine the ark that I have won?
A vessel with which to carry on the legacy of song and drum?
This feeling... it's uncertainty... Can a numbered ragdoll truly breathe?
Or is this another monstrosity?! Oh, the vanity of human beings!
This doll was once my daughters friend, her confidant and guardian
Her Parthenon to revel in, when days were colored, nights were dim
Her partner when the music played, when bite sized hands begin to sway
Nine hasn't moved in recent days, lifeless since she passed away
Can I bastardize those memories to cling to fraying threads of grace?

No...
I switch the machine off... tears travel down canals that age dug
Looking out into the waste, air too harsh for my lungs
Congratulations machines, it appears that you've won
Fathers always were... surpassed by their sons....