Ravage the fruit, O' my brother.
From the garden of vindication.
Tasting the skin, like vinegar,
we fall from the pillar of mercy.

You whore of want, you feast of dirt.
We are gluttons for the sky.

Cough up your last breath
and grasp onto no one.
Our fiery eyes shall scourge the earth
of the spoils of you.

Cry now,
tears that run gashes in your pretty face.
There nothing,
not even the spoils of you.

In deepest summer the flowers cover up
what was left of me.
I know the seasons, they change out of the
swords that protrude from the
spoils of you.