The blood of winter sets its standards high      Between the wake of autumn and the casket's eye      These roots in the soil, from the petals in the sky      Grace fell again to its bloody tomb      Like a vacant lot, Like a virgins womb      I'm on the hunt for reasons      not to sleep through all the seasons      So i pray to my ceiling      But the tiles never respond      My fingers clasped with the innocence      Of an altar boy guzzling blood