The blood of winter sets its standards highnnBetween the wake of autumn and the casket's eyennThese roots in the soil, from the petals in the skynnGrace fell again to its bloody tombnnLike a vacant lot, Like a virgins wombnnI'm on the hunt for reasonsnnnot to sleep through all the seasonsnnSo i pray to my ceilingnnBut the tiles never respondnnMy fingers clasped with the innocencennOf an altar boy guzzling blood