the writers block entrances to stone vestibules
life congeals and appeals to those despicable few
creaky mattress, true, but we flew by burnt capitals
the grass's dew dried up at four o'clock in the morning
we learnt the vastness of our own chaotic complexities
it's impractical, doling out the pasts to our moping guests
insight into their creature comforting me, smiling languidly
he saw those hooligans dance above his crumbling tombstone
impregnated by the rain, headlight shone into impending gloom
waiting, moaning, mourning in a deadlocked, deadweighted room
we're inclined to drown in our own questions, in irreconcilable fate
and a hateful frown, the tasteful waste adorning those latest to bloom
