beyond the grave
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Match strikes box
Friction becomes flame
Slowly, steadily
The hand stretches to reach its goal.
1920s, New York
A young woman,
Leave crunch as we walk
Silently though the dead bodies
We pass a thousand graves
And a thousand lay ahead
We feel so alive
Walking through the rotting dead
Don't mind me here,
i'll wait for your pass.
I'll wait for your sand
to empty the glass.
What's with that face?
You look at me strange.
I've just been waitin'
for diligent mange.
