The Past
A definite nothing much
Biproduct of the heights of flesh and such
Net weight of one's ghost, got
A solved version of a former you
Not congealing on the ceiling of your present song
As it's greys reach off into gone
A bread end egg
If ever there was one

Nigh are those long gone bones on me (x2)
Still you will to will to kill

The Present
The bread basket of choice
The all mighty and bone holding now
Where the day wears down on your direction and dive
Dripping its sad math in the brief breathe slide
Of every second sucked into the pearl that becomes you

Nigh are those long gone bones on me (x2)
Still you will to will to kill

The Future
The future is fully opposable
Statistically there are no present plans of actions took
That can truly and entirely ever affect it
Nor set its effects completely to a certain more desirable strain of so

In fact
To the thinking thing
It is a killer black
An unpredictable and all devouring trap
It is a hollow in the mind, begging to be let out and bleach the now
Ignite the uquiets of the often fear-eyed and endowed skull
Drawing the stinging things to mean
Out like a present danger does the venom
We are but a swarm of ants to tremble on its handgun
The blood on its shield
A single swallow to its honey-smothered winds of wield

To it your death is a fact
To you an axe

Nigh are those long gone bones on me