It's too early to hang our heads,
Sunken eyes set in,
Under your skin,
I'm counting ways to make a mess of things
Things I say that I don't mean are catching up with me
In a sweet charade, an iron gate playing a fence
I might end up entering
What is space not meant to see
Hallways misinforming you, all the while
I'm clearing spaces on shelves, helps me find it
Misery, estate sale digging on a Saturday
Got sick of dining alone
It gnaws at the bones and sinews
With marrow crushing your teeth
Stuck on the outside looking in through window panes
Tangled up, solid chains
Buried in coffee cans
No rest for anyone following the grave
Makes you sick to your stomach
I might end up entering
Misery, estate sale digging on a Saturday

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