My Bones Will Be the Picture Frame
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Grinder's going
Sparks descend
On a floor where planks creak and bend
It gets sharper
I pretend
That it won't hurt me when it digs in
Shooting sparks
Bloody rain
I know my bones will be the picture frame
I know my bones will be the picture frame
Dirty brush
Broken lines
The whole room stinks of turpentine
Trying to wash out
All the signs
Of crimson figures doing crimes
Painted faces all ashamed
I know my bones will be the picture frame
Water flows down the cracks
To the sea from the sky and back
Keeping everything alive
Except that which must burn to survive
Ideas come
Ideas go
Notions buried beneath the snow
Till branches spread
Branches grow
Till match head is struck and thrown
Firewater put out the flame
My bones will be the picture frame