On bandaged wings don't we all fly.
Glass echoes severed, and there’s our past.
Silver rooftops daze your censored eyes at last.
Visions you die to kill for and venomous ways, don't cry

Terrace vanes love to carve your heart,
Or gouge the needles from the start.
Intriguing fake cloaks pull your knees three times radial,
And the delicacy fills you then, so subtle

Sought for and got for what was it? Not yours?
Her body is no ones.
My body is hers.
I got the sought for shrouded stone cold cures.

Shaky at site, and wrecked less than others, to the decimal shards.
Don't they just intrude my lungs and recede my guard.
Under blue covering, kisses my hands, and are yours too.
One night a week, is one never too many, nights one less and six too few.

Packing in the fine disease you, and it won’t relapse my remains,
And it's one we all occupy at the sight of static twice young.
Bringing me to your fine diseases, I want you, to inject my name.
With your heart, and bloody is the tranquil grip, we will sustain.

Redeem what’s here, and what was there, towed in old memories leaving.
Fly to this, clippings lead me to you, and your hands make abstractions.
I can scope and compare to my raiser, the works are nostalgic to me, with
ease.
Please, please we can stay, and prevail in this world through the category
tease.

Sought for, and got for, what is now yours.
Your body is no ones.
But my body is yours.
I got my sought for buried magnetic warmed cures.
Recalls to the future, never the what were’s
 
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