Isis Presents - It leaves me cold - Matt broomfield

Unclasp my hands As though from grace My fingers track Across my face They slowly arc Tracing my fear Blows to the head Here, here, and here My sad old scars My fragile grin My eggshell skull My tender skin They break them all With fists and feet Blood in my mouth Salt water sweet My own snapped rib Punctures my lung Blood salty sweet Upon my tongue Their fists are blind their boots are death I close my eyes And count to death Such life long pain Thirty years old Naked and bound They left me cold Great rage which they cannot withhold They talk of truth It leaves me cold My matchstick bones My flesh is clay I clasp my hands As though to pray A day will come When all the streets Will drown in blood Salt water sweet