The Nazarite

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Visitor

A visitor, in English and Welsh law and history, is an overseer of an autonomous ecclesiastical or eleemosynary institution, often a charitable institution set up for the perpetual distribution of the founder's alms and bounty, who can intervene in the internal affairs of that institution. Those with such visitors are mainly cathedrals, chapels, schools, colleges, universities, and hospitals. Many visitors hold their role ex officio, by serving as the British sovereign, the Archbishop of Canterbury, the Lord Chancellor, the Lord President of the Council, the Lord Chief Justice, or the bishop of a particular diocese. Others can be appointed in various ways, depending on the constitution of the organization in question. Bishops are usually the visitors to their… more »

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Wasn't nothing to ask, and wasn't nothing to be told/
I've been burdened with cracks, in everything that I know/
And when it's time to relax, I feel a scratch in my throat/
That's telling me to go back to see if I have some hope/
Run tell that, that the functions exposed/
I've been loved for that, but I've been hated by most/
And when the blood comes back, to where it naturally flows/
I'll bite through tongue and through tacks, to prove that I have a soul/

Marigold petals always littering my brain/
I've been trained to be dim but I was born to be aflame/
Awake in the most honest way I possibly can be/
Should I kiss the fucking ground if the sky can't stand me?/
You ask what I can be, but not what I am/
Is it fortune leaking through all of the cracks in my hand?/
Is it torture being used or is it all sort of a plan?/
Broken toy askew for loose screws in demand/
Maybe we can fix this, maybe can fight/
Maybe we can f*ck and add a notch onto our lives/
Maybe we can fold as far as seraphim go/
Never even show our faces in that heroin glow/
Apparently though, the air is filled with sarin and smoke/
So no kiss that we could share could be a fair one in hopes/
To carry our spokes, to linger off with nary a coat/
Couldn't believe it when we let all of the air out the floats/

It's like the game, is called, the rain, it falls/
Same as it's always been, white plain walls/
The game, is called, the rain, it falls/
Same as it's always been, white plain walls/

March to the beat of the drum in your heart/
In stark contrast to the rhythm from the start/
Headlong we part, and we'll meet again in roses/
Separate the art from the focus/

I put the needle to the record just to make some serotonin/
Put my head inside machines to try to figure out what's broken/
Put the dead in picture frames and leave them right out in the open/
Put the barrel to my dome, no home, left smoking/

Needle to the record just to make some serotonin/
Put my head inside machines to try to figure out what's broken/
Put the dead in picture frames and leave them right out in the open/
Put the barrel to my dome, no home, left smoking/

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