|
Such distance to the tips of the fingers, |
|
the ganglion loom jerks inside; |
|
the body grows steadily stranger |
|
but the spirit won't be denied. |
|
That sharp halogen flash jars the eyeball, |
|
the limbs pump in overdrive; |
|
the body grows seemingly weaker |
|
but the spirit won't be denied. |
|
Yeah, the ash-mark stands out on the forehead |
|
as the vacuum sneaks up on the eyes; |
|
the body becomes a constant traitor |
|
but the spirit won't be denied. |
|
And they call that living a normal life, |
|
but normality's not standardised. |
|
Though the body gets ever more root-bound |
|
the spirit won't be denied |
|
Yes, the spirit survives. |
