And you know what makes me tick, my heart bleed, my teeth cringe, my mind expand to get you back.
And you know what gets to the fallen and what keeps them from getting up, and that’s the beauty of nothing.
If I can’t drink your wine, your water, what is left?
Life is an ugly creature, tormented like wings in winter, for the sullen angel cried so softly leaving a pond where I lay my bed.
But you see, it’s all about the clock striking me blind, cold, vulnerable and helpless. And the streets being deserted without thought.
The child on the corner who was left behind has now trailed and fallen into a grave. (Here he lies, his eyes beckoned to be blue, and his lips have turned scarlet in hopes of another day which is surely due.)
The creaks of the barren house where once played that child now resembles sounds of critters that no one can find.
Do you realise that I shiver in such a daft manner that these eyes follow me around? Do you know that crystals from my lashes are frozen like soil in solid ground?
Oh, paint this picture of which I desire a melancholy shade; of winters torn and summers gone and my mind on a shadowy fade.
The crackle of her skin against the naked moon belies thoughts that scramble across her tears—so she sighs and waits.
And we’re still ticking.