Crumbling at the very core of my being
Dropped on my spine and now I find
My spine is made of glass
Wax veined, moth to the flame
Bones grind, dropped on my spine
Bloodstained glass in the sand
Softly slaughter the lam
So slow, knife in my back
Remains like needle tracks
Beautiful words are seldom true
Tongue of thorns, my spine is glass
Spineglass
My spine is glass