Shallow trenches flooded with ink,
paths worn in paper,
pull me from the brink.
Background chatter and grey noise fills our head,
ten minutes a day respite,
or I'll end up dead.
Static rain ice cold on my skin,
but it's dry at twilight,
in the ghost town within.
Feb 16, 2016
Feb 16, 2016 at 11:47 AM UTC
Shallow trenches flooded with ink,
paths worn in paper,
pull me from the brink.
Background chatter and grey noise fills our head,
ten minutes a day respite,
or I'll end up dead.
Static rain ice cold on my skin,
but it's dry at twilight,
in the ghost town within.
