Flies in the ashtray, karmic demands,
Hope in your eyes and blood on your hands,
Lips taught as bowstrings, fingers sharpened to hooks,
So far from the heroes you read in your books,
Daydream dereliction, sweet spinning wheel sting,
A straw dog sunrise and stained-glass wedding ring,
That heretic’s halo, your sandcastle throne,
A superficial wound that cuts to the bone,
Such pretty perdition, a fresh-paved descent,
Perfectly cast for the role of satisfied malcontent,
Inhale those excuses, wear victimhood like a crown,
Place blame on the ocean for letting you drown,
Adrift on a tightrope, breathe twilight’s dull hue,
Expecting those same roads to lead someplace new,
Await the whispers of morning, awake and a wreck,
The first breath of spring on the back of your neck,
Search for sincerity’s semblance, some echo of truth,
A fragment of hope in the splinters of youth,
But you found only fractures, sins never confessed,
As some tiny voice claws deep inside of your chest,
Heard but unanswered, it calls out just to say,
That this place is your home. You built it this way.