I saw you sitting one fine morning,
Aside a yellow bin with a bear,
Your hands stained of madness,
Grease, stale food and stolen prayers.

This morning you walked out stone cold,
The old man’s door swinging wildly,
This morning you cried blood,
His words and moans raining acidly.

It came upon you, clear and numb,
When you grasped the next one’s hand,
They are nothing more than victims,
Of a system gone mad.

I’ll tell you now, I’ll tell you this,
Objects can never be abused,
I’ll tell you now, I’ll tell you this,
You’re a lot more than their shortcoming.

Words are but instruments,
Syllables but balms,
These thoughts about you curing,
My little insipid world so calm.

Love is no cure, it’s a fatality,
Take my hand, be hurt bittersweet more,
You’ll find a fireplace and kisses so warm,
Longing distant from a world all whored.

Does that man know your hair is really auburn?
Does the next one see your eyes so green?
Do they feel your skin beneath the grease?
Do they caress your lips when you whisper your price?

I touch this yellow bin everyday,
And watch you speak to your red bear,
Read my eyes, we’ll find each other,
Your fireplace awaits, and so does Forever.