Born perfect
Perched atop the spire
Nestled in the Bosom of Creation
Wounded once, never again

I'm building a cult around your figure
The saints, wanton
The idols present
The idle presence
The idols present

The rituals dance, just out of reach
Just as any good conduit should dance
Just out of reach

Ten thousand, weary and wanton
Exhale the dust folded into my bootheals
And on and on they, to forever

Little arms toward heaven grasping
Eyes of milk and endless waters
Breathe, oh, islands breathe
And know that I have found you

Breathe, you women of circumstance
And know that we are intertwined
She rises, even now to the summit

She bows to cradle it, consuming
We are balanced, on one finger
And we are softly
And we are softly sung to sleep