The Flow

Twenty six thousand, one hundred twenty
deaths in the west, seems like enough.
Gold in the air, gold air so think
you can breathe it in like humidity

and you know the flow will never go

'Cause the black birds are searching for it
forever, they are swimmming toward it
and never are they satisfied
you can hear it in the sound of their cries

Will you live to see them all, sweet thing?
A sea of ink won't be enough
to cut your skin, and stain the cuts
and mark the passing of all humanity

and you know the flow will never go

'Cause the black birds are searching for it
forever, they are swimmming toward it
and never are they satisfied
you can hear it in the sound of their cries