Autopilot

In weaving this, a wonderful mirage,
I place a veil of lacquer over empty catacombs
And painting little stars to hide alone where night is blacker
Than the part of me that knows that, in a way, it’s sabotage
Because I promise you a winter
And a sign of “None May Enter”

But here I have become a mere facade
An effigy I’m burning in the nights to keep me warm
And stifle any need I have to mourn for what I’m earning
Where the centipedes are crawling in the veins of dying gods
And I am just so very tired
Of the darkness that I’m mired

In hearing you, a siren in the fog,
My heart a steady rhythm made of dread I’ll have to drink
My hands are on the brink of reuniting with the prison
That I fashioned of impressions of forgotten dialogue
Because I knew what I was saying
When I chose the path betraying

But now there’s only corridors of smoke
A palace of attrition made of people that I lost
Where windows in the summer wear their frost like an admission
For within, it’s always winter
And my eyes see only violet
While I move without a reason
Navigating through the fog on autopilot

3 thoughts on “Autopilot

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