Thorn Woos the Wound Lyrics

If the reaching arm could only sprout feathers,
her eyes entombed by the burning nothing,
your rosehearted, faceless truth
and your mouth, the begged-for hanging sword -
she would cast herself in your image.

If the reaching arm could only hold
a lantern to this avenue of sighs.
Veil inviolate, fluttering above the trench,
veil gaseous, in dancer's loving tongue.


If the reaching arm could only sit patient
waiting for the flesh of memory to rot and decay,
waiting for the train to leave the station
in a billowing transmuted cloud,
waiting for the stars to fall,
waiting.

If the reaching arm could only fray
the looming shadow of the sun
that heaven rotates
upon her tender hip.