waltz around the room with a glaze in your stare. In your tuxedo suit.
I will give it a name. Lower you defenses. Lower you casket. Open the door
and open your grave. Murder. Now you're doing the waltz with your murder.
Mediocrity is the Killer. You find yourself helpless. Christ is not a fasion, fleeting away.
Fasion. He laid emralds in her eyes but I'd already tried a bracelet made of gold and
scarlet thread around her wrist. Everything was wrong, so we sang sentimental songs. "oh
how seldom we belong, but how elegant our kiss!" We painted crooked lines, but we danced in
perfect time to a love so much refined we know not what it is until like a dullen wine we
pour into a grief we'd know before, but never quite like this. All I know now is regret,
it follows like a sillouete along the cobblestone behind me, but has nothing much to say
except to innocently ask, its voice delicate as glass "do you see me when we pass?"
but I continue on my way.