If the sky falls down our throats
Maybe it wasn't our fault
It's blue whether you believe
In it or not
At some point I'll have to find my
Religion
The clerk said I left it on the shelf
Which I thought was misleading
After shooting it into myself
Phantom beings in your
Peripherals and talking to
The trees
Mistaking angels as
Rustling in the leaves
Potions to carry you through
Mornings of loosing your keys
Stepping in puddles and
Sliding on ice
Kissing those cherry-red
Eyes that perceive only nice