The floor you walk on is smooth.
there is no ground there.
magic begins with blood.
outside, there are trees,
with concrete under their roots.
but i have passed the tombs of kings,
regaled them with pacing, checked bins for food
and wrappings.
i have scoured the seas for miles,
cloaked my face with ash.
my fingertips opening, accepting my time.
The dark cylinders of half-smoked cigarettes
for me, i'm your sorrow
calling in your dreams
for me, i'm your shadow
howling in the streets
Tomorrow, i will walk the streets
and steel myself for the familiar. your eyes
will not settle, a hunger. you'd be happier in your grave.
when we meet, share stories, you stretch me. i see,
i see a semi-circle of teeth.
The dark cylinders of half-smoked cigarettes
for me, i'm your sorrow
calling in your dreams
for me, i'm your shadow
howling in the streets