Oh what tangled webs we tend to weave within the forgotten lives we did not lead.
And what can surpass this heap of breathing mass
to out do us all in the end?
My language is different from your thinking,
your thoughts may twist and turn until they burn.
The bell the rings from steeples on high,
dislocate crumbling to the ground.
My lies have been set in stone.
My eyes have not yet shone
a true tear since you have flown.
Your departure makes my purpose worth while.
I have announced my suicide
upon this dirty linen bed.
And no more shall I bend
the rules around slippery corners.
Nor shall I ever be here to take you back.
I will not even listen to a whisper
from your brain and back again.
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