I feel the words come all, reap what the freedom yields.
Hold a grey machine warm and soft. Born to a world in color.
As below I am dying. Draw beyond the seasons, behind the thin vale.
Atmosphere fades & they walk bold yet quiet.
Fed my bones.
Witching true homes manufactured.
Taste rapture in her.
Graze wrists across teeth.

Sweet muse, I elevate.

My withered volumes are melting.
Seventeen scars brand defeat.
Moons glare in peace.
A refrain earned.

Hold tight to the ember of your rope.
Jaw swells from anticipation.