I put my guts to my glory so that everyone around me has a safety net thrifted into their detailed story

Where does that leave the seamstress at the end of the day, while sewing up tattered *****, wave and watch that memory fade to yesterday

The vice is the voice inside each borrowed choice, the dice thrown down, it's snake eyes now doing all the suffocating in my glass windowed town

I keep stitching up these frays and splits, and each time I know I'm choosing it. Something given to me so it wouldn't be right not to share, but like clockwork I turn and thread that needle with my hair

None of that matters it's neither here nor there. I'm stuck in torpor relishing your dark poison spears. Don't take your cries to the said man of the Sunday hour, the seamstress is here to patch your holes, frays, and splits, and then leave you for the vultures to devour the rest of your ****-