Time's all been figured out
and you've left absolved of doubt.

But I'll be the first to curse your halo
and I'll be the last to turn the tables.

Last stop: mercy for your crutch.
A backward consequence of touch.

I'll be the poison on your arrow
but I'll be the last to know you care.

I'll be the washed across your shallows
and I'll be marched across your gallows

I'll be cursed before the able
but I'll be the last to turn the tables.