Lyrics
Corpses never incline to speak to their killers, never forgets the hands by the score of their turns, Nor in vain disposition they try to sully the truth, or penalize the knife for what it had done, when truth is bent, at the slant of betrayal, does the man remember, the repeated stabs that betook his hate, yet the knife braces what it had learned, its sharp tip ready for the next stroke of fate. A man is honest to his faults, not in confession, long overdue— to punctuate his violence, as the quiet, grows and grows like dagger of clouds the blade, slick with old intent, waits in the pocket of his silence. [Hook] Watch the motion watch the twists watch the knife weigh down the weight of the wrists As grave-dugged commitments, go down the record, the hands still count the same old turns, the same angles of approach, the same quiet justification before the stealthy mind devise new ways to churn Truth doesn’t break here; but leans on thin ground leans until the fall feels chosen, until the stateroom doors shut hard. And the knife— no longer cares, why it opened It only knows the motion, to pin the heart. Watch the motion watch the twists watch the knife weigh down the weight of the wrists So when the next stroke comes, don’t ask the corpse why it won’t speak. Ask the man why his honesty fits his faults, why his conscience had the shape of a handle, as he tried to exact penance from the heaven's vault, for the graves never betray what they keep. Watch the motion watch the twists watch the knife weigh down the weight of the wrists Watch the motion watch the twists watch your life go up in the swirling mists