Worship

Scar the fingers that wrap the throats, scratch the skin that makes me whole. Grasp the body and drag it below. Fear at your neck is the holy road. Flesh brethren, commit to the hands we hold. Scratch heaven, limit to the dirt we bore. Clipped winged doves chasing worms, only to wither by the hands of light. A body unbroken, a crux of strife. Fed to the dirt, swallowed by lore. Fear at your neck is the holy road. Flesh brethren, commit the hands we hold. Scratch heaven, limit the dirt we bore. Forsake my skin. Worship