"a parasite that lost its appetite
with what he calls his own being yours to clean for
walk with a weapon and fight just to see
what draws the line between the now and yesterday
scenes from the past being premonitions all too real
we dwell like antique paintings older every day,
until a thief steals you from the wall
in the shadows of creative eclipses
i've noticed your handwriting improve over the years,
though sometimes i still smell shit in the ink
i can't clean this stain of a little boy,
and sadly i am trapped in here for good
locked my door and read these cryptic pieces
a hundred-thousand times more
for every sundown that crutches the awake,
simmering the need of peace and lightly seasoning
our bodies back to bed
aimless is the mind on porcelain pillows
and we dwell like antique paintings, older every day"