I taste of ash -- of something burnt,
Takes me sub-atomic through wrinkles in time.
Perhaps that explains the right shoulder's pain,
Or the blood from the spit flushed down the drain.

You've been drinkin', smokin', well, wastin'
The thought came to fruition.
Good old limbo knocks and gets all comfortable,
Leave -- like how we know are able.

Find a way to shake universe's hand,
Without fire and heat, in enclosed spaces of insecurity,
Be able to find yourself in somewhere new,
A place in your thoughts you've always known to be true.