Corroded enamel and worn out knees
The distance from waking to dying
As they walk they whisper to the Earth
Whispering the riddles of jackals
"Here are my children, I have nothing more to give"
Constellations forming on their frames
There are whispers inside their cells
Begging to be set free
Feed the old to the dirt
Feed the dirt to the dogs
The air is pregnant with the empty carapace of all thats left
The empty carapace of all thats left