East Of The Wall - A Functional Tumor

The visage crumbled, but ignore the wreckage. It's worth was loaned.

As with mange brought by the flea, as with stares brought by the gangly, we're all marked by the path of our births. As with mange brought by the flea, like the call of the unclean, we've been pulled, and the only direction is down.

The reek of our kin betrays the stain we've hid.

I'm the hold. I'm a mark, a lock. I wouldn't have lost my breath for lack of a cause. Good god, I couldn't break free in time from the grasps of stragglers. Grounded and shamed, dragged kicking back through the dirt. We're all marked. Always.