The Ritual

Raspy rich voices full of stank defeat blend into the backdrop of early morning Blood shot eyes cling to withered memories of lost splendor Desire cries to lick the fruit of possibility yet they are unable to free themselves from the hug of death The cankerworm has crawled into the garden of their youth and devoured its glory What's mistaken as a yearning to box against the wind like a virgin finding love for the very first time is nothing more than unsung lullabies floating around at the bottom of a forty ounce