My every little step makes a break for the wraith I embellish,
Keeping a warm hand for an empty canvas you can’t imagine,
You call that symmetry? I call that an iron combine at best,
It’ll float if you let it, but usually I’m not so inclined to let it rest,
Inclination at its best, there’s no time to be the rest,
There’s more to being the whole that missed the entire spectrum.
Two hands and a heavy heart later I find your love compressing innate narratives,
Seemingly prophetic opinions when all I see is red.
And this is this, that’s the turning of an era,
Posing lab rats to sniff out the cheddar that we’re all bargaining for,
Apex abound, the quality of what I can afford ain’t no joke,
It’s times like this where I stress quality control,
QUALITY CONTROL -
Some days I let her rung out the snow,
Show her the designating subtleties to compound and my grimace takes its toll,
Some days I’m left with nothing in the here and now,
Step back into fathoming a peaking brow,
- Fuck that, I’m sleepy now; ha.
Perhaps it was me buying into false marketing,
Or perhaps it was being dragged under for further questioning?
Either way, I’m dead, in fact I’ve died twice,
Once I left, and another when my name failed to be mentioned.
Here come the weary, alas legacies are heard;
I’m left to figure a knotted figure eight mystery that begs me for contentment,
Attempted, but the mask can’t be maintained in frigged temperatures.
And for all who’s here, myself included,
Let’s recap the past few or so tears -
God is dead,
God is Dead,
GOD IS DEAD,
Can’t you hear?
I’m not one to brag, but damn I’m thinking clear,
Or at least I was, humbled by my little plummet,
I’m old enough to die young, but not quite old enough to say I’ve done it.