the cloudiness of this dirty, tiny window
is indistinguishable from the haze
of a hot summer sky, the sun
drifting along with infinite patience
there is an art in the way paint peels
a certain poetry in the cracks in the sill
that makes me think of old things
like the thoughts I've let wither into age
this disease of dormancy is rotting me
I embody a lie that believes it's dancing
yeah, that's me, doing what looks like poetry
and in the end, it'll kill me or immortalize me
I'm addicted betting on my own fragility
so I grip tightly onto some semblence of reality
just in case, but reality, reality...