Contagions try to break your figure eight, who would try to desecrate. As the dormant lies awake, the valency of time, a prism for the color blind. An empty vessel makes the loudest sound, in search of chapters omitted, the trust is with the wind. Let it unfold, as flowers burst through the concrete, to supress the smell of sulfur, dressed up tall on Sunday morning. Reverse the polarity of the pulpit, as the old animus shatters. The restless limbs will mend, cured by drought, they will walk toward the echo. The noctourniquet stops the bleeding, as they watch the antidote turn the pigment of dead leaves.
Words rearranged and image manipulation by: Josh Fleming
Inspired by and words taken from: The Mars Volta, Noctourniquet
Original Image by: David Guidas at: http://whatipic.com/?s=dead+leaves