High as Eden and whiskey-tinged.
Ego singed and naked.
Cloudy sky obscures
Cut the ribbon and watch
Asymmetrical progression retrospectively candy-coated
and classified as parabolic
scored to lo-fi
I say: “it’s gotta be more than a photograph;”
you say: “take the needle off the phonograph; ignore the mirrors long enough to take a breath.”
Your ghost is all I’ve got left, and you say: “give it a rest, baby;”
but it’s hard when
I’ve been such a fucking mess, lately.
Call me crazy, but
I’ve become convinced
majesty and apathy
in roughly equal measure.
I ever made on