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    April night-time
    And we run like mussles through the stagnant nodes of man
    Blood-bridges lean towards the gaping synapses
    to disarm the stars within us

    Hornet Hive-dark
    Severed wings in vainless beating
    buzz out from an inferno of fangs
    to disarm the stars within us

    We should have been
    so much more by now
    Too dead inside
    to even know the guilt

    Waining Ring-deep
    a halo of thorns
    Sips now down in sheets of sharp silver
    to disarm the strs within us

    We should have been
    so much more by now
    Too dead inside
    to even know the guilt

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