caleblionheart:

I stretched my skin and dried, sewed myself up and filled it to the neck with wine, but still we lie. Back’s to hell facing the moonlight. Has the well run dry? No, the well’s half empty with a boy trapped inside, alive, scraping the surface trying to see the light.

When the hammer comes down will it bend the nail at the neck? Or scar the hand of the martyr that you’d hoped to resurrect? When death is infinite will your God ask you, “What did you expect?” When the hammer comes down will it only leave a dent?

I heard the truth once, and like a lucid dream I awoke one morning to hear the prophets plead. “So much to say. So much to sing. So what’s to think? Nobody’s listening…” 

When the hammer comes down will it bend the nail at the neck? Or scar the hand of the martyr that you’d hoped to resurrect? When death is infinite will your God ask you, “What did you expect?”

When the hammer comes down will it only leave a dent?