The Coventry

Quiet churning of the oars,
Thouer you are here alone,
As you tightly grip the gun and shaking,
Conjuring your fix,
Swallow swoops behind the arc,
It has decoyed every shade luring,
Syphoning the quicker son who's first to fire shots

Curse my vision I've witnessed turning of the clocks,
To hanging strings we raise our fate's toward,
Wild trails that she floats over

Hanging songbirds in the fans,
In the garden she was found,
They can sing the trembling tune as they tear her husbands flesh
Now the pulsing starts it's call,
Every mariner will pause,
Under mighty landscapes bellowing will pixelate your trust