Pass to me the vial full of ink that I may use
The quill of imperfection on a parchment like a fuse
And where the black is bleeding soon the stain is like a bruise
And here I wonder why when given many passages I seem to always know that it’s the darkest that I’ll choose

Burning round the edges so it seems like an antique
This manifested metaphor of loss I seem to seek
As though the destination isn’t nearly quite as bleak
As what I know it’s always been because it’s what it was before but I approach it like a word I shouldn’t speak

Hand to me the scissors that I sharpened yesterday
To cut around the corners of a truth that couldn’t stay
As true as all the consequences lies could not allay
Because I knew I had to sever something underneath the skin before I knew how much of me to cut away

Drying now the ink upon a tapestry of skies
Where still I hold a shovel digging deeply for reprise
While crafting only bigger crowns of pitch and many flies
I wonder just how many know the pain of knowing where they go while slowly mapping their descent into the turbulent intent of their demise