The daylight is weak now
and silver these days.
I walk alone at times -
shut eyes won’t wait.
You’ve seen me drift away -
a satellite.
It’s not all that it seems -
idle might.
It’s nothing that dried flowers don’t mean.
Pushing closer it would seem.
The way I see it,
it’s so far gone.
It’s of a bloodline,
I heard you say,
and I won’t find a way you want.
I’ll wait for a little while
to see the shape.
I’m not the only one -
a worthless claim.
I value eyes so black,
because it’s a way.
I held my tongue last night -
hopeless.
I was, somehow and inexplicably, one of the apparent few mega-fans of Neal Sharma’s previous band High Water. I thought I’d forever have to make do with their lone classic, S/T, but then I stumbled across this magnificent work, which picks up where HW’s S/T left off. It’s like Christmas and some sort of weird musical holiday all rolled into one! Couldn’t purchase it quickly enough! Unconscious Chanting
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