I laid doubt on an altar for you to bow before. 
Like i would stay forever, and if I could, 
I would make each sunrise a gunshot 
so you could feel your breath slip away 
before you see the morning. 
(The sun lays low on your shoulder, 
slung like a carcass.) 
"There's no place that i would rather be 
(Your branches weathered through the storms 
and their silence.) 
than holding your face in the dirt, 
so when you breathe in my ear, 
I can hear the mud caught in your throat." 

There's no love song for a crooked voice to sing, 
there's no tongue that tastes freedom's blood. 
Words speak around the burden that buries us, 
such [bad word] from silent lungs. 

Our guilt is captured in the darkest hours. 
When there is none: in every rising sun. 
Unflinching, let your eyes fall to the sky. 
Pray to your morning, 

(The sun lays low on your shoulder, 
slung like a carcass) 
"There's no place that I would rather be 
(Your branches weathered through the storms 
and their silence) 
than holding your voice in my hands, 
so when you scream in my ear, I can turn it off." 

Did you ever even see me turn around? 
Give even one glance back? 
I don't believe there's any home. 
Homeward carries no direction anymore.