Alma Stigmata

The father asked for a cliche
He moulded us in this way
His hand indifferent to our shape
Mind resting on other things

Careless cracks beneath the clay
Never sleeping we’re wide awake
Always in fear of the aftershake
In the night in weariness we’re praising

A life lived under the setting sun
Always marching to a tattered drum
Too old now to burn out young
In the light we find that we’re fading

Been wrong since we were born
Set from the fire to the icy dawn
Still stuck in a cycle of a spinning saw
Each rotation brings us closer to breaking