Your cold eye is offended by the sight
of me struggling for the most apt words.
Close the door gently, and turn out the light.
You treat my attempts like fresh steaming turds,
with sinister glee deride the idea
of me struggling for the most apt words.
I have tried to make plain the things I fear,
ice-cold loneliness or the razors’ edge.
With sinister glee deride the idea.
Now I find myself again on this ledge,
my choice to step to the right or the left.
ice-cold loneliness or the razors’ edge.
The warp of my dreams slips loose from the weft.
Spiralling shreds of madness fill my eye.
My choice to step to the right or the left.
I’ve stepped on the path with murmured goodbye
unheard. I’ll walk alone until I die.
Your cold eye is offended by the sight:
close the door gently, and turn out the light.