Here I sit in beneath gypsum sky
Forgetful in a pitiless tomb
Laying upon an artificial knoll
I made this myself

My splintered hands crawling towards the latch in obdurate gesture
With the dismal resolve of my skeletal percussion
I made this myself

The pulse in my frame an uncertain litany
Tried torn from the brief and the certain
Not shy from a skip or a leap
I pry this myself

Unversed expression interrupted in speech
I crept down the moss extending decrepit tendrils
The treaties of dawn or a query of nebulous ambition
I pry this myself

I asked for your name in pinhole obscura
I called on your intrusive pest of a credit
I trusted your fallible cacophony divination
Maybe you have given it your all