Blood Of Winter

The blood of winter sets its standards high

Between the wake of autumn and the casket's eye

These roots in the soil, from the petals in the sky

Grace fell again to its bloody tomb

Like a vacant lot, Like a virgins womb

I'm on the hunt for reasons

not to sleep through all the seasons

So i pray to my ceiling

But the tiles never respond

My fingers clasped with the innocence

Of an altar boy guzzling blood