What Is This?
Michael Gira
There is a star in my throat
In a void there is hope
In a space in between
Runs the milk of release
If motion is time
I am water, I will rise
To your bed on a cloud
Where you stand, where you writhe
Painted red, bleeding gold
Your sword guts the Sun
Flesh is torn
Oceans disgorge your love
We are swimming through
Your moonlight pools
The phosphene tides
The writing on your eyes
We drift through stone
We sift our own powdered bones
We wash, we are clean
What is it now that is thinking this thing?
Oh where are you?
What can you do to prove you exist?
Oh what is this?
Who is this singing that which no longer exists?
Nothing can stop us from becoming nothing now