The Wilde Flowers

Sun hangs high, I turn away Failure underground Heart is sick and fever is high Waiting for a sound Like a trail of insects to me I watch them from afar Feeding, breeding, scheming Tell me I am wrong Hiding from discovery Staring down into the ground Had they seen the posion in me A tide of spite wound be found Moving faster lingering gaze Feasting on my sanity A grain of sand against endless waves A wish for the slaughter of conformity Blinding light as the flames grow higher Searing skin on a funeral pyre Inside me sleeps a violence waiting to be freed Blinding light and the flames grow higher Searing skin on a funeral pyre Should I speak and they'll call me a liar I'll retreat to my funeral pyre My sanctuary, a thousand centuries I'm not waiting