I live in between breaths Hollow are my words, for haute hymns are felt before they’re heard and the dead’s echos are canon. A rhythm rises from the soil promising rapture. First line, felt as love, A second line, a round imitating the first is met Fool crowds gather, lured by a land’s echo of love and bliss. To be met by A Choir of one, a native son. Dead. Silent.
A third line, is borrowed from before. I live in between breaths Resurrected to die again, a round The dead’s echos are canon. Every overlapping line tied to shares melody Every soul tied to shared memories For each note is an owed to kin all silence is owed to me. And lore is what borrowed breath claims To be.