BARROW LYRICS

1. Fox Ears And Silence

“Certainty,” we are told, “is a luxury granted to few through instruction.” Nothing has ever been sacred, holy, set apart. Never. Spoon-fed, force-fed watered down “wisdom” espousing the status quo. I only exist as I am rendered; apostate, shaped in the eyes of tradition
as little more than the yield of misgivings. This system: “blessed,” “edifying,” mocking the worth in words. Is there a shape of failure fitting perfectly to form? This soil is cursed, we continue to sow it. Our bodies have withered in time for the harvest. Is there a
shape of failure fitting perfectly to form? Will I mold to your ideals or do I get to keep my own? Why should I gather everything to fill a box of empty space? I’m collapsing as you fill me with your bastard sense of grace. Every fleeting notion is a burden left to bear,
an educated filter for breathing stagnant air. We’re forgotten, abstraction, novelty, worthless, always imperfect. The death of purpose.

2. A Dead Hum, Echoed

Waste not, want not. I cannot atone. Our homes are in the soil. Our hands are red and cold. We wait for his motion; forward, downward. Descent. Senseless. Alone. I’ll never see the light of day again. The sun hangs grey and static, sinking in oppression. Waste not, want
not. The chill rests in my bones. My hands are red and cold, devoured by my own shell of selfishness. I can’t stop seeing this day in my head. I can’t keep watching you age; sadly, slowly feeling my own. I am complacency; vacuous, enabling. Void. Jaundice. Relentless
antipathy. I’m sorry. Siren sounds floating like feathers to fire. Abandoning autonomy. I’m just what’s left of me: faultless, selfless, apologetic. There is no rest in routine; no sleep, no silence, no blessing or scourge. The sun still sets. The moon still waits. My
days still end the same. There is no rest in routine. I’ve tasted the body of milk and honey. Nothing has changed. The mornings grow colder. The nights grow longer. The sun still sets. The moon still waits. These days still end the same. I just want to float in your
warmth. Jovial innocence, callow and calm. Perfect lethargy, lingering onward. Blissful undoing. Drinking in winter. This is forever.

3. Wither

There’s a smile that I wish I could find; just a whisper in the current left listless and undefined. You’re still the apparition on the backs of my eyes; an uncertain dissonance humming onward as I seek sleep. Sleep for myself, it’s yours if you need it, but the dawn
won’t allow us to keep it. I’ll keep talking until you finish my sentences; you always do. I keep finding myself floating on waves of silent disagreement, illustrating my own insensitivities. I’ll swallow my pride if my stomach can hold it. You can cut me back open. Is
it wrong to say that I’ve been praying softly I’ll go first? I’m still coping with where love goes when we’re sleeping in the dirt. I’ll bury you in orchids hoping heartlessly to bloom. I’ll dread the hours left as sunlight sneaks into our room. I’ll pack our lives in
paper, tell my friends that I’ll be fine. I’ll burn our memories in silence just so nothing’s left behind. I’ll keep your image in my eyelids and your voice inside my head. I’m still sorry for the things I’ve never done and never said. The ground is littered with the
remnants of remembrance. There will be no memorial; no monument made. We will only receive but passing glances. Our fingers, intertwined, breaking away, we are painfully aware that there is nothing left.

4. Old Timer

Feel it out slow. Did you read it from the names on the back of my hand? When I was done did I lose sleep over it? Am I nothing but contempt? I don’t know. If you knew what was going on and when you say “it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done,” did we all lose what we had
gained? Are we nothing but the same? I hope so. Did you see the poise at which the gestures were made? Shaping limbs to form the loathings that our bodies make. Marking every inch, every crevice of my skin, hugging tightly to woven flesh, I felt it move. I speak of
nothing; no longer of what once was, no longer to the ones I love. Tell me, what peace did you find? Laying restless, I watched it take sleep, dormant and bleak. “Let what’s left be brought to death then bring it back to us.” Are we nothing but the same? I still feel it
setting in, setting out. It never fades away

5. Fed (Choking, Retching)

Feast your eyes, this is the breadth of life. When we can’t feed ourselves we eat each other alive. We’re all guilty of waiting and wanting; burning alive, destined for nothing. I feel the flames beneath my feet as I take steps away. We’re all guilty of waiting and
wanting; burning alive, destined for nothing, but weeping, gnashing of teeth. Believe. Repent. Evolve. Regret. If my shame didn’t fit, now I’ve grown into it; threads sewn together by years of nescience. Negligent philistine, son of tradition, child of pages, raised for
contrition. You just keep draining my blood. Every one of you, draining my blood.

6. Clawhold 

How many years will I miss? Will the days miss me, too, as I pass them by? Am I you to your father now? It’s the most I could ask for. I’m grateful, even in leaving. I’m not alone any more. I promise. I try to stay happy, but the future fights back. Am I you to your
father now? It’s the most I could ask for. I’m grateful, even in leaving, but I don’t want to be the one to brush the dust from your hands, hoping that one day I can be a better man.

7. Dogwood

Where can I find a shred of light throughout this desolation? It all ends the same. I don’t know if I can be there to lead the procession home. Not me. Not anyone. Not me. How many years will I miss? Days? Weeks? Nothing you’ve said is forgotten, tainted, rusted away.
I’ll carry you with me. I’m not alone any more. I promise. It’s just sometimes I can’t stay happy, though I swear I’m still the same. Am I you to your father now? Do we smother the ash in your hair? It’s just worry, weary and weathered, bent through my heart like a
stake. Am I you to your father now? I’m anxious, unraveled. I’ll take your words to heart before I carve them into a stone. And what of my children? How well will they know you? I hope that they can see even half of what I do. Time always proves toxic; we’re resilient in
youth, but now I’m left praying that age will wait for you. I don’t want to be the one to brush the dust from your hands, hoping that one day I can be a better man.

8. You Can Probably Find It In Norfolk

There is no solace. The bastard offspring of advances in the name of detachment, bred without shame for replacement parts, disconnecting nature from nurture. Artless. Ambivalent. Fabricated corporality. Birth without growth. Calculated lust without chord or creation. I
want to scratch the surface; someone else’s memories beyond these walls. I want a home that is my own. Can my mind even wander if someone else has staked their claim on it? Is there a place to speak softly? These thoughts must be put to rest. We’re conceived in
misconception. We are warmth in vacant wombs. We are birthed with perfect posture, arms held high and heads hung low. I’m not waiting for the truth. I’m not leaving myself open. I’m a product of perception, of perspective, life less loved. We’re conceived in
misconception. We are warmth in vacant wombs. We are birthed with perfect posture, arms held high and heads hung low. We are raised to give all that we have and then we die. Will you still be there to hear my whispers? To hold my hand when it’s almost over? Will we find
safety in the autumn weather? Without a care for the time or place? Is it okay for me to still be scared of what comes next or what I’ll leave behind? And though my body becomes cold and broken, I am complete.

9. God In His Heaven - All Is Well

I lie alone in a dim room. Disquieting, atonal stillness turns my stomach. Volatile and unkempt; avoidance defined. Spirits lull me to sleep; their voices, fading further. Voices of comfort and containment. Only so many mornings remain. I simply need a place to call my
own; soft and soundless, warm and welcome. An empty home, hopeful and hollow. I am blankly and willfully waiting. We’re all sinking slowly; falling unsteadily to meet the same end. Though I’m alone, I find rest and it is well.







BARROW LYRICS