If there aren't blood in my sheets
Tomorrow morning
I'm gonna run out in front
Of a moving car.
What do you call this?
Cemented as a being
Pointed towards death
Yet the need
To exclaim your freedom
Paints shackles to your once naked wrists

They appear alongside time. Slowly with the sun.
Slowly with the moon.

Happy
You are happy.
Are you happy?
The bars of the prison
Appear with the coming of a steady breath.
And you
The interrupter
Lay inside.

Above it reads:
Prisoner of life.

Edge slowly towards
The perimeter.
Your movement examines
Your face.
I call you closer.

And here you are
Telling me,
That the shackles leave
When deaths footsteps
                       Aren't so dim.
His distance
Tends to whisper despair,
I guess.
Much of a character you embody
Amongst the pages of a lively legend,
Yet here you are,
As my friend.
As a smile I turn to.
As the keeper of my tainted conscience.

An Artistic phenomena undoubtedly.
Live it how you want to live it,
I'll observe in reality's museum.

The story of our senses subsumed
By a myriad face. And a tragic disposition.

I won't spot you in a crowd,
But i'll see you in my mind.