Peckham Rye

There is no song
It's long since ended
I lied about the angels
I said I saw descending
There is no song

There is no sound

There is no depth or weight to
Any of our words now
There is no song
The air will ring with
There is no voice here that is capable of singing
There is no song
There is no story
I thought I saw an order to the chaos
I watched it fall away before me
There is no song
We have no language
No way to articulatе
New boundaries of anguish
Therе is no song
There is no breath
We have no thought, one single throttled glottal guttural utterance left