800
Tales, from the back rooms in hell,
confrontations with scales asphyxia from the ganja smell.
Trapped in fiery shells itchy fingers release me to my doom, I guess that this is farewell?
Command me to be well,
Command me to be well.
[Part II]
Granny would shed tears and say "baby, please tread lightly on the verge of the dark and the light."
I said "they both converge there on the horizon where man emerged as day turns to night."
The coffins are no longer quiet, no silence, codeine has brought the dead back to life.
The dead have come back to life.
Unconsciously roaming through slums packing my lungs with the remedy for greater insight.
Formulating alibis as to why I plummet into Nubian thighs, each an uncharted cave in search of the meaning of life.
For she is the creation of life, and unfortunately as of lately i am the harbinger of its demise, and our current situation has deemed it's self "The Crucible."
These designer threads pulling limbs that stem to the fiery fingers of puppet master lucifer.
Now I'm conversing with the clouds "if I die will I be reincarnated? In a future life as the worlds savior."
Hennessy and Xannies warp nightmares so vivid mothers and babies and brothers pleading saves us.
I can't be the savior because I'm drunk hanging out the the window of the coupe screaming "the cops won't saves us," they don't speak a language.
The belligerent gifted my malevolence and benevolence seem oh so entangled.
In a huddle with bangers, who sling bullets that sing a capella to dark nights like this.
Don't come creeping through elsewhere, mothers tell them to avoid the abyss.
But here I am and now the xannies have released me, I descend through clouds to fragmented grounds where I lie.
The day courts away the night, I breath in the sunrise and wipe the crust from my third eye.
To find myself lost somewhere on the verge of the dark and the light, tread lightly on the verge of the dark and the light.
