Solemn graves, wake up.
The earth is in my lungs.
Bone dry, and sore from the dust,
Inhaled now; a part of me.
I'm bleeding dirt, and roots and all.
The soil is mixed with my blood.
The roots are tangled, around my ankles, they keep my anchored, to the ground.
I'm standing on, left to gather, what I can, from the weather.
But my skin longs to shed, its bark and leaves, to be left for dead.
If I could be there among the waves, where the pressure presses gently,
From above and below, invitingly so, it's calling me, it's calling me,
I could be safe, I could cold and free,
It's calling me back home.
They're trying to follow me home.
Throw me to the sea, where I can be, under the waves, where I can sleep.
I am home.