We inhabit this burnt out sun
The taste of cold ash sits on the tongue
It's an imperfect Eden, and we have travelled so far
It's so fucking cold here on this fizzled out star
Crawling into the inverted abyss
A foothold of dust and bone debris
A chain of tombs stretching on and on
No sound or vision down here
In this tomb, osseous
Echoes of Winter
Reverberations of ice on flesh, in throat
Months of barren rocks and skeletons
Airing our corpses in the streets
We march on into the season of the moon
