The dressing in the window is shadowed by the right corner door
Calling to the left sun he screams for more of less and for the floor to be lit
Like the bottom of ballerinas faces when they're sprayed by the stagelights.
He cries a last note to the minor scale blues number, switching to bass
And closing the gap between what he really knew and what he couldn’t face, he floats home
and up a stair,
Pulling down the sheet over the two pairs of killing drones, the lovers eyes
And regardless of the broken mirrors and the lucks flailing failing dream vain, he will not try
To quit.