Forty-eight rings on the trunk of the ash Since the iron first made the geography smash The ceiling is shedding its salt on the bread While the anvil is resting its weight on my head. A permanent season of lead in the jaw, Scraping the frost from the industrial flaw. They point to the bolt and they point to the weld And they praise the thin cable for everything held. The brickwork is thirsty, the marrow is dry From the heavy black water that leaks from the sky I’m a post in the mud, I’m a spike in the beam Sucking the oil from a violent dream. Under the titanium, deep in the grain I’m torn and tattered by the weight of the rain They call me a monument, cast and complete While I unravel and pulp in the heat. Don't name me Fortress, don't name me Strong I'm a thread that was stretched for too long. Four laps of the sun in a windowless room A clockwork of pulses inside of the gloom They bring out the medals and sharpen the pens To rewrite the spirit of citizens. The posture is rigid, the sinew is taut But the cells are surrendering everything bought. I’m an old piece of gauze on a jagged metal fence Flapping in the wind of a loud consequence. The brickwork is thirsty, the marrow is dry From the heavy black water that leaks from the sky I’m a post in the mud, I’m a spike in the beam Sucking the oil from a violent dream. Under the titanium, deep in the grain I’m torn and tattered by the weight of the rain They call me a monument, cast and complete While I unravel and pulp in the heat. Don't name me Fortress, don't name me Strong I'm a thread that was stretched for too long. The mortar is crying. The piston is sighing. The rivets are tired of the constant defying. Stretching the fibers. Bending the laths. Walking the mud of the arithmetic paths. Is it a flex? Or a final collapse? When the ghost in the engine is starting to lapse. Tattered. Torn. Look at the monument. Ignore the thorn. Keep the paint thick. Hide the red in the brick. Tattered. Forty-eight months. The same frantic trick.
