Wither on the Vines

I hear the feral voice of god
he’s been warning me for months
I’m not going down that river anymore
 
little tiny drops of rain
running dervish down the sink
you know that current bears a path of gilded fiction
and a closer look isn’t worth its weight in gold
 
let me go
 
oh my son
what have you done
look at all these little eagles dressed in drag
 
something drives me to the end
lays me out –
– you know I must oblige
 
the water rises past the nose
washing bodies to the shore
with one last breath he says you know I told you so
don’t you worry I will wither on the vine
 
let me go
 
oh my son
what have you done
look at all these little eagles dressed in drag