Birds In Row Among The Ashes
Fill up the masses and leave us alone. Among these ashes
there ain't no place to grow. We're called the lone kids
of our broken throats. Tired of yelling, we've got no
place to fall. And i admit i am nothing but the opposite
of your decisions. Building myself on the anti-pattern of
the golden wounds. Among these ashes, turned up by crows,
we are staring at the surface, hoping for welcoming hands
to cut through this dark sea. But carry your burdens, no
arms will get open if you're not a new martyr.
