I don't know what it will take to dishevel this crumpled pile of reveries
Most times, just sleep it off until tomorrow, relinquished by its wings.
It's such a hot afternoon.
All lines originated from believing in a shaped pretense of love
get retraced by the hands disfigured, scourged by terse relegations.
It's such a hot afternoon.
Sheltered by a wealth of wooden imitations, not distinguished by veneer.
One by one, beads roll down their faces, emancipating this requiem...
from such a hot afternoon.
(Pt. 2)
The unwelcome rite of late summer's pass bleeds you dry and spills your glass, it's more than enough to make you dread the death hanging above you.
It's not above you.
Then then final stretch pulls you in on a rusty wheel too old to spin in the deep dark pith of unreposed regret growing below you.
It's not about you.
I don't know what it will take to dishevel this crumpled pile of reveries.
Stark, folk-derived songs built on brittle acoustic guitars that conjure the image of a fire burning in the distance on a dark night. Bandcamp New & Notable Oct 8, 2022