This is...
A shape out of town, counting down
I deal in moonshine truths.
Love and Loss are the only meters of the soul,
Where the scales are counting chambers.
There’s a very old shape out of town.
And it is counting down.
I don’t do whimsy, or metaphors told.
It is my blood that’s bad.
My heart that's dirty.
It’s my skin that craves.
Confusing lack of sleep
with keeping thin.
I’m a believer,
Just not of what you are in.
Was this it?
Was this all you could muster?
Was this all it took?
To sate your bad blood.
Jump your dirty heart.
Satisfy your craving skin.
This is meant to be temporary, you know.
