Hiding in mundane scenes of normality, somebody's vacant kitchen feels like it could never feel like home to anyone, it's haunted by the living
Hiding in plain sight, wondering if the gods think your blatant wrongdoings are an insult to their intelligence
Hiding a half ounce of poison cause the fiends are waking from their seasons of distorted dreaming

Riding upon our quiet corner of the storm here in rural Kentucky, this familiar, sleepless neck of the woods
Riding on the shamed back of a growing epidemic, a beast of weak-will called temptation, a truth called injustice, a bed of compromise and complacency we're practically trained to prepare ourselves for from birth
Riding on the unsightly back of a rampant jackal

The devil whistles in the wind in the harsh sunlight at noon
Calling us back to a silent hell of refuge.