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