Near the sleeping hurricanes, I watch the planes assemble themselves in a trumpet of testament.
I thought I heard God's name, "Elohim".
Hear the fissures of mountains groaning in fountain.
All the while your arms folding you to death.
There was a sound like quiet violins and I had to watch you leave.
So we sent our postcards through the fissures, hoping that there was not a division.
We found ourselves in the smile of the exit.
We found ourselves in the mouth of the tempest.
Our raincoat glossary protected us from the precipice interest.
And our shoes were soaked to the brim and we cast off our obvious.
Because we sent out our prayers with a return address.
Hand-made postcard protest
we believe in rebate salvation,
mail-in rebate salvation,
we believe in mail-in rebate salvation.
Texture blood temperature: rich fleece.
Your uncle stares you down from across the street.
Do you know your father's gonna die in the matter of weeks?
The giver blood roots for miles eternity.
Talking theories and whatnot never dies, the giver blood grows up in your eyes.
There was a sound like quiet violin and I had to watch you leave through the kiss in the mountain, so we sent our postcards through the fissures,
Thank God taught me the giver blood.