A Functional Tumor - East Of The Wall

The visage crumbled, but ignore the wreckage

It’s worth was loaned

As with mange brought by the flea, as with stares brought by the gangly

We’re all marked by the path of our births

As with mange brought by the flea, like the call of the unclean

We’ve been pulled, and the only direction is down

The reek of our kin betrays the stain we’ve hid

I’m the hold.

I’m a mark, a lock

I wouldn’t have lost my breath for lack of a cause

Good god, I couldn’t break free in time from the grasps of stragglers

Grounded and shamed, dragged kicking back through the dirt

We’re all marked.

Always