I kissed a girl with a broken smile;
nothing could come near.
She carved it with a pocket knife;
slit from ear to ear.
And she wears it like her favourite scarf;
it keeps her from the cold.
So I told her its only woven by
her enemies of old.

The stars don’t define my life,
But the specs of mould on the ceiling,
I study them carefully at night,
Reading them in true light,
A sickly soul they’re revealing.

A wondering eye sees all,
And repulsion overwhelms it so
Much that one gives out a hopeless sigh.
The ceiling is too high,
To wipe Aries and Leo.