The Past

A definite nothing much

Biproduct of the heights of flesh and such

Net weight of one's ghost, got

A solved version of a former you

Not congealing on the ceiling of your present song

As it's greys reach off into gone

A bread end egg

If ever there was one

Nigh are those long gone bones on me (x2)

Still you will to will to kill

The Present

The bread basket of choice

The all mighty and bone holding now

Where the day wears down on your direction and dive

Dripping its sad math in the brief breathe slide

Of every second sucked into the pearl that becomes you

Nigh are those long gone bones on me (x2)

Still you will to will to kill

The Future

The future is fully opposable

Statistically there are no present plans of actions took

That can truly and entirely ever affect it

Nor set its effects completely to a certain more desirable strain of so

In fact

To the thinking thing

It is a killer black

An unpredictable and all devouring trap

It is a hollow in the mind, begging to be let out and bleach the now

Ignite the uquiets of the often fear-eyed and endowed skull

Drawing the stinging things to mean

Out like a present danger does the venom

We are but a swarm of ants to tremble on its handgun

The blood on its shield

A single swallow to its honey-smothered winds of wield

To it your death is a fact

To you an axe

Nigh are those long gone bones on me