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letra de and tomorrow is confusing - sin7ven

[intro]
but you’ve come this far. what do you think?

[verse 1]
i can’t tell apart the demons from the nuns
i’m bleeding from my thumbs, shaking, stunned like these paintings speak to me in tongues
i tear my eyes away from the fourth piece
try to scream but the paintings contort speech

i became numb, lumbered to the door that i came from
escape from this morbid creation
i’m in h-ll, feeling nausea, the door is gone
and i can hear the hail through the lobby walls pouring on

something otherworldly coils around my mind
and i’m suddenly compelled to finish doing what i started
then a song of surly voices howl inside
the final painting as turn and face the music, coming ardent

[bridge]
it’s raining hail in a birch forest
and i think i’m okay now

[verse 2]
lark argot carved on tree bark with sharp beaks
the last few been indeed dark and hard weeks
but the ghosts in this clearing offer solace
and the healing that i didn’t think i’d feel and
on the real i’d be demolished if i wasn’t just a husk of a man
brushing off the dying follicles and dust on my hand
my chronicle is crushed up and canned into crumbs
and the language i lean on is tangled in tongues

it’s raining hail in a birch forest here
and spirits hide behind the trees, lurch forward weird
like a deer that’s been startled by a force in the wild
while near all the spooks stands a horse and a child

and they’re both cold, shivering but glad to be alive
light blue skin, tingling vitality and pride
i try to stay on earth with some mantras and quotes
but i feel like a part of the onlooking ghosts

[verse 3]
heavy is the head full of envy
and nothing demonstrates it better than the spectral assembly
i been thinking, the hail melting steady yet the pebbles
rain heavy, feet sinking yet i’m never seen blinking

lost in the pillars of white bark with dark gashes
kinda considered making fine art from our ashes
i hear an owl calling out to all the hiding souls
anthropod eyes like a thousand small kaleidoscopes
peer down from safety of the leaves
at the spirits as they sway and occasionally weep
driven by an instinct and fragments of memory
foraging the forest in their absence of clarity

and humming like a runaway
on a summer night, b-tter knives flutter by, bye, slumber tight
and it’s raining marbles of hail
in a birch forest painted with gargoyles in scale

[verse 4]
i’m picking flowers up staring at their centers like a soured love
and laying them all tender on the clouds above
as the roots coil around my toes
and maybe i should change around my voice or my approach

i don’t know the very intricate and fickle workings of the brain
i’m a serpent of the plain, hail hurts my scales
but hurt is occasionally pertinent
in the furtherance learning works like a tourniquet

so i guess that’s the way it is huh
i see that’s the way it is, i’m okay with it
i wasn’t but doesn’t mean i don’t have a say in it
i’m staring at the hail drops melting in the painting and
i trail off, turn around, walk out the gallery
it all seems shaky like i logged out reality
i can’t recall the name of the painter weeks after
and the place wasn’t there at all when i went to check

and i keep asking

but i think i’m okay now
i hope i’m okay
i’m okay

- sin7ven

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