Growing words like a symphony sound the alarm
I can taste fear on the delicacy of your arm
Do not waste any of your faux charm
Such in impromptu little ******
is that faith you muster
or is it lustered
twisted in sync
to the sound of cuff links
driving to the mountain brink
The one who sits in front of my mind
The back seat of the car meanders behind
I dream that it forgets all the moments of crime