Walking on air down Cemetery road, is it here that I must cease feeling? Is this where I must let my veins run cold?
My mumblings will have a full moon under which to blubber and cry, I am a Marshmallow man now, my youth caught in the net of a becalmed brightness, where a million jokers on the back of playing cards mark my road.
Shivering in the heat of the morning sun, a sun with a funeral grin, strange timbers burn, but, do I live and learn? Ah! You sick soft flesh, you withered old hands, who can you sweeten now?
Bright darkness is perceived as I stand in this fools space, I vanish at dawn trying, still trying to know something.