julia, she sits by the edge of a mountain
calling to mind all the things she has seen
thick and unused, hands of a writer
alone in the dreams of all she could have been

julia, she lays on her own empty casket
this moment lasts no more than 2000 years
pagantry fills up her veins with the visions
of the future she paints with a dent on her lips

this life has betrayed her own soul so badly
all she could do was cry over her sins
sins that pilled up in an unending travesty
that flooded her brain with the rage of her fears

julia sings with no life in her voice
accepting the path that has led her to this
she squints in the sun and whispers in dust
feeling the famine bring her down to her knees

no angel, no devil, just a name on a grave
cursed with the chance to try yet again
for how many times will the cycle remain
how many new ways to put julia in pain

a husband, a mother, a friend or a foe
all blur in delirium, under summer's glow
for what had she been, how long could it go
she'd never been anyone, anyone would know

the waste of her strengths, her tears and her eyes
no matter the trenches, the cuts on her thighs
no matter the prayers she made on those steps
julia will wither into nothing instead

her nails, her dress, her never-ending woes
julia's fetching water the 100th time in a row
there's nothing more to it, in this dead end road
than the million lost julias she could never grow

put in dirt and rotations of the moon and the globe
it all never really mattered, she was never really gone
her name through the airs, instrusive, occult
the presence of julia remains
when i look
she's been here
all along.