Ready, Rotten, Dead, Forgotten

I'm surrounded by capitalists.
Ghosts in people suits.

Digging, and digging, and digging.
For something that won't be there in the end.
Leaves faster than was found.
With no sound.
Under the ground.

Like some old Farmer's Almanac,
I feel a bit more wise.

But I don't know why it's taken so long to find my own voice.
My feet have carried me this far.

Pulling through the valley,
And hearing God's songs is like some vigilante,
At war's end.
It'll be nice to breathe.
To finally breathe.

It'll be really nice.
To feel that rain again.

I can't tell if my intentions get out in front of my mouth,
Or if it's the other way around.

You can see how that might stand in conflict with my better judgement.
But oh well.
My ears just ring,
So my eyes just close.
I know where I want to go.

If that's as close as I can get, that's as close as I'll take.
I expect it will be nice.