Testo Husk in the grain Blood Red Throne

Husk in the grain

Lacquered lung, no breath, no air
Pale grain swells in a swollen stare
Mouthless hunger, bloated tongue
Hollow roots where voices hung

Splintered teeth, no taste, no sound
Pressed beneath and never found
Fingernails in dust engrained
Names dissolve but marks remain

Bone dust laughter, oil-fed wane
No decree, no sharpened chain
Hibernation, vermin wait
Rotting slow but not to waste

Pestled marrow, cold leaf feast
Swallowed whole by silent teeth
The jester sings, the dancers play
Grain grows thick
Where bodies fray

Name dissolves in lacquered light
Fingers scratch but skin stays tight
Dampened spasms stretched too thin
Wood absorbs the breath within
Veins in splinters, pulse unwinds
Flesh unthreaded, left behind
One by one the words unspool
Filling gaps in hollow gruel

Blind moths gather, drawn to none
Father laughs, the pull is gone
Not enough to break or fade
Just enough to waste away

Brittle shade, no weight, no form
Held in place but never worn
Drifting husk in dust confined
Neither severed nor aligned

Fractured silence stretching thin
Sinking slow in air so dim
Woven deep yet pulling wide
Unraveling what is inside
No return, no soil to take
No hand to grasp, no ground to break

Only whispers drifting pale
Only grain that bends and wails
Only embers weaving cold
Only dust that slips its hold

The sky won't fall, the bones won't shake
The rats won't bite, the hand won't break
No fire, no flood
No fate to claim
Just a husk inside the grain
Once a breath but now a stain
Once a prince now remains
The door stays shut, the throne still stands
The husk remains
No blood on hands, no blood