Repetitive Whistles

Perhaps the world isn't spinning
Maybe the universe is a big clock ticking
Ringing in high noon
Times are changing for the sacred lovers
Full with emptiness
Coming apart at the seams
Wooden faces with names that are fake
Their lonely hearts are judged by their beats
Abandoned by the bleeding cross
Crucified by the magnitude of the eruption
An aggressive fire burns leaving behind a past tense
Question marks for the pedigrees
Isolated enough to stay dead beyond life
Labeled by evil at first glance
Familiar places no longer welcome the embrace
Nothing to contribute but a misunderstanding
The source is overlooked by topic
Feeling the will to survive fall through the cracks
The desire to let loose this hold on life still lingers
Gloom awaits the return of the burning sky
Painting the eye of the secluded mind
Depression lays inside in a fetal pose
Derivatives of pain clear a path to the unholy
Pan flutes whistle with rancid goat breath
The bull has arrived with sharpened horns
Carcass by his side, he calls my name

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