dead hands
flatliners, the
we'll stretch the skin out till it hurts
attempt at preventing tears
the flesh it opens in cold blood
constant upper hand i could
claim to be at peace with it
or i could set fire to your dying wit!
you're gonna drown in it!
and i'll be on the ocean floor!
the ink has finally run dry from this lonely pen!
the cardiac arrest is worse
when honest spines are still
the blade it ruptures no remorse
but a hell of a way to feel
your insides flatten out and flee the course
and a tangled conscience creates a new cold war
i won't be your open door!
the ink has finally run dry from this tragic pen!
we'll sink down to the bottom while you're busy sifting sands!
your cold dead hands! those cold dead hands!
i'd like to thank the sands of time for burying us both just right!