An Epoch Ellipsis Lyrics

Two wings of the choir
Crushed by Te Deum and Dies Irae.
Rioting crowds clamber,
Not with a whimper but a whine.

A poor cur's lapse.

Square dwellers begging for change,
An arid spring.
Cold, unmarked, grave.
Birds flown to entropical climes.
Sore ire cysts sick eyes saw.

Poised upon collapse
A poor cur's lapse.
And with a pauper's lisp
In slips apocalypse.

The lying and the lamb:
Unlikely bedfallows.
Cloistered bones, now free,
Hung from streetlights, gibbering.
Tongue-tied tastemakers,
Sage and sinnerman,
Where ya gonna run to?
Babel on.

One final brass blast
Of an Arc/Angles geomatria.
Seize to exist.
Yea, judge me
But parse sentences.

Heartbeaten, youthless.
The long liquid list.
Yea, judge me
But parse sentences.