The fires burned
through our better half.
Ash to what was
and what will never be again.
And it made me cry to hear
it was over.
Made me red with shame to feel
the weight slip from my shoulders.
When hungry eyes have gone.
Along with everything that kept us keeping on.
I will tire then
I will tire then
I will tire
tire then.
We all still bend
the same foul line.
Lend our lips to crooked verse
in the promise of precious time.
And I suppose that their machines
run dry this place.
Left blood under my nails,
same shade streaked across my face.
Recorded on the Grecian isle of Hydra, this is blissed-out psych pop with stacked falsetto harmonies and luscious arrangements. Bandcamp New & Notable Apr 9, 2023
Two dozen 12-string acoustic improvisations that feel undeniably haunting, like lost transmissions from ancient Appalachia, rediscovered. Bandcamp New & Notable Oct 17, 2022