Flaying columns use to be order
In a Utopian world
Where rules spiraled down the walls
Even when the highways bled
And people held onto cold hands.

Sunday evenings use to be ecstasy
In a simple world
Where lust ran wild through the doors
Even when the tongues flared
And people lived out of their mind.

Bruising necks use to be pain
In a care-free world
Where love caused happiness
Even when the knives plunged
And people winced with blows.