I spark the brilliant blasphemy, another bland epiphany. White room, too large walls and frost in air. You were glowing in your malignancy.
I spoke of steep towers, of canyons so deep the human brain cannot comprehend them. I went through the tubes and I kept going. I am fire and deception, the taint of smoke on hot wind. I am fear and bravery. I am striving towards a finish line, always moving, pulled by a lurid jester.
I am sad because I expected more. It's a set up, you gotta figure. You're young and you want to be old. You're old and you want to be young. I want to sing the truth of a song I've never sung.
You are cold depth.
Sitting in a booth, small town, spider-web cracks in the red, sparkle vinyl. You joked about the small juke box and I laughed, fingernails deep in thigh flesh.
I am the ghost of memory, twisted for the entertainment of no one, granted small glimpses of clutch bouquets and June mornings.
Honey, I'm tired, you say. Baby, that's alright, that's just fine. Tired is alright. That's what I say, while I hear the steel on the grindstone and imagine the depth. So deep you can't see the bottom. Can't see the heart for all the blood. But someone's gotta bleed.
There ain't a whole lot that's sure in life. But someone's always gotta bleed. You mark my words.