Born perfect
Perched atop the Spire
Nestled in the bosom of creation
Wounded once, never again
I'm building a cult around your figure
The saints, wanton
The idols present, the idle presence
The rituals dance, just out of reach
Just as any good conduit should dance
Just out of reach
Ten thousand, weary and wanton
Exhale the dust folded into my bootheals
And on and on they, to forever
Little arms toward heaven grasping
Eyes of milk and endless waters
Breathe, oh, islands breathe
And know that I have found you
Breathe, you women of circumstance
And know that we are intertwined
She rises, even now to the summit
She bows to cradle it, consuming
We are balanced, on one finger
We are softly
We are softly sung to sleep
