These harsh evenings have us all turned to jacks
Tonight, we are not but walking puffs...
Hot with split tongues, hard feelings, and morbid musings
Littered on the curb along side blazing eyes and coffee stains
The stars are fading and morning glow consumes them
In gulps

Early morning hours are rushed with nicotine
And infused with rich fermentation
Which churns deep in our guts
Spilling and twisting them for our eyes to see
We are all there, or have been...
Rotting in the space where geometry leaves us without proofs

Roaches we hit
But what a drag it is
To sit street-side with friends
Whose hearts and minds are spinning on a compass
With no magnetic pull
Whatsoever