Some of Matt’s writing doesn’t end up on an album in the shape of a song lyric

The Days Of Wrath Are Here

Tonight
Great clouds of gritty wind
Blister a decrepit cabin
As the final act begins

The moon is a cold chiseled dagger
Slaughterhouse red
Ripping open the raw wound
On the day of reckoning we all dread
God’s stopped listening
To the excuses he made

The last night has fallen
Like the guillotine blade

A rocking chair lays wounded
on a ramshackle porch
smoke pokes from a stovepipe chimney
An occasional flare illuminantes the night
while inside
A shriveled old man sips his whiskey

One good hit will put the Gods in place
And cure everything in a flash of glory
His liquid courage lasts but a harlots wink
No happy ending to this story

While he dreamed in color
He kept livin’ in black and white
Murdering time by the hour
Every junction faced with wavering fright
Wasted years yearning
For some sign to appear

There’s no such thing as spare time
The days of wrath are here

The salmon swim against the river current
As the bears await their jumping high
Floating downstream with convenient repose
He always wondered why

Safe the sound of comfort
Laid to rest a trifle doubt
Victim of prejudice and forgone conclusions
Agony he could do without

Ambition dissolved in mournfull selfpity
Succomed to vertigo and fear
He knows the light is dwindling
He knows the days of wrath are here

Why seperate the gold from solid rock
Why thrust the sword to the bone
When the pain it brings about
is sharp enough
to draw blood from brittle stone

Molehills turned mountains
and with the passage of time
Pebbles pushed up
become boulders
The Sisyphus fate we all endure
Like the air up high
Determination becomes
Thin and colder

Somehow he forgot
When you get to the top
You don’t stop
to look ’round
You keep climbing

Oh, there was a loved one, long ago
A brief foray of the sacred oath
As they yelled and screamed
It was clear to see
The world had failed them both

Mundane temptations bearing unwanted fruit
A child of tainted circumstances
She grew up poisened by dad’s neglect
Mother’s shame and mischances
She doesn’t call or come around
Leads a languish life far far away
A hard luck story of quiet despair
Somewhere in small town USA

Some must fall, so others can go on
Last rites now mumbled on his past
You only live once,
is what they say
But you die a thousand deaths

He folds his hand in this game of chance
Where it all went awry
remains unclear
Withered by weather
and widowed by desire

He knows the days of wrath are here

Matts-Back