The Sky Was The Floor
Stored in the recesses of our minds
We watched and we wept
Until there were no tears left to
Grace their wrinkled faces

A flame flickers, burns, and dies
But the compulsions won't let him pass
It's always been there, the ghost
It's always been whispering
Weaving threads of obsession

This endless famine of the joys
And the sorrows are there too
This complexion hides them all
Unraveling the sanctuaries slowly
And burning the cathedrals quietly