sing, song, fall along,
the edge of the sword,
or the world, perhaps because you are bored.
Clanging, banging, the soul till it's torn.

I am not my best, because you are abhorred,
your name's become a mist,
where it was as real as a sword.
Panging, slanging, words until I'm torn.

Eyes, curse, look at the floorboards,
about her face, a cigarette, the roses petals burn,
call them shadows, they are her aura,
they are doors.

On all fours, seeking your mouth,
like an insect crawling on the floor,
I am sick with, a thing I was equipped with,
a heart, fallen like a star, claiming it's only witness.