So he sells his words on a piece of paper
Written in harsh handwriting, and
He looks like a cross between Jack the Ripper
And a tormented poet with a lifeless expression, and
He too is awaiting the misery of catastrophe,
Of losing oneself.
And all that you have ever done,
Was to eat his words for breakfast.
And for years you have kept a garden
Of horrendously watered lies
And a quick, sharp—
And empty smile, and the painting
That could hide the madness, non-existent.
If the world knew, a witch hunt
Would see the end of it.
Perhaps he is awaiting betrayal, one quick fall
And the starving ground beneath his feet
Just to know that, indeed, the world is spinning
—Just this one time—
He stains his fingers awaiting another lie.
But you are a selfish little thing,
So you set the garden aflame
Waiting for a soul to frame.
