Any reaching that is done
Is a groping fumble far from sun
Hours away in black hole memory
What's for hostage when you're the enemy?

Where are my clothes?
So ugly with sin.
How many hands,
have been on this skin?

Moaning like some sick animal
Chained to a porch begins to cannibal
All it is is ugly flesh
Whining pitifully with every breath

But the howling was always in its head
Put your clothes on,

You are far from dead.