divided by swords that slice
through time and emotions
without the slightest touch of pride,
I paint my nails green.
catastrophe is at hand
and I'm feeding
pride's foul mouth-
reality is the queen,
but I'd rather sleep
with her youthful thief...
like a soul damned to hand,I cling
to every beating within
the clock's mischievous
mechanism-
to live,
to collide,
to come apart at the seams.
it's hard to breathe when your lungs
are made out of brass and porcelain,
eager to fall and easy to crush
beneath a world that looks
more innocent than it is.
as the sun fades into its
next kingdom,
I tend to my punctured feelings-
pity,pity,pity
on the weak...
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