Lonelilessness from Third Hand by Wooden/Apple/Heart

We’re all afraid of dying so we fall into religion, dig a hole out of communion. Sink into your savior’s arms. The snake’s inside the prison now, the oil’s in the garden how the blood grows with the cotton. All the crops upon your savior’s farm. Your faults will be forgiven, all your vain and violent visions, your war on wages, water, women, if you’re speaking with your savior’s tongue.

The sound of laughter the evening after all the flash bangs and the smoke grenades.
Can the city of roses, with their busted noses, smell the petals through the iron and the pepper spray? I don’t know.

There are bodies on the pavement like flowers in the basement. They’re wilted and they’re wasted, they’re knocking on your savior's door. Every beat is bitter and the pipes are frozen over like a river in the winter, you don’t know your savior’s heart no more.

Despite the street flares and the rising bus fares, the barricades, and the cavalry they’re still showing up. And in the morning as the crowd’s dispersing you ask yourself, “is it good enough?” God I hope so.

• Folk
• California