No pale march over concrete
Nor old hymns sunk in song
Ever sought the end of a year
Black or bland
And cut in glass, my eyes
Plow into murmur and flies
And Death full of flowers, chimes, shy
Reserves all of the gutting
Anytime you could've crawled on your back
We wouldn't let you
Anytime you could've acted fast
We wouldn't let you
Still life dreams gaslight
Come feasts and loathing
And my awful care
And no fault or home
Reserved for all of the gutting
Anytime you could pull out wonders out of smoke
Anytime you want to
Anytime
Through both fists closed
And eyes bled shut
The march passes on
Through winter clothes
And city songs
The march passes on
The march passes on