As I was told, this is when it starts,
The pink-slippered twirl, tender tearing apart.
Putting sheets over dusty bones come to rest
To be ruffled, hear the muffles of
The other life coming next.
She makes spirals in wrinkles,
Her ankles, the axis spins out of control.
Twisted revealed
Shortly after he healed,
The same crooked mirrors
Just a slightly difference face.
The same crooked stories
To run circles in a race
Where you erase the tracks you left before,
And the lactic acid, you ask for more.
Abhor the cycle, but stay in line
You're a ticking bomb, going off every time.
Because you were never really on it
And it was never really known,
So with that same dusty sheet
You gather up your bones.
It's condescension up a hill
And renown around the bend,
With abstract thoughts in concrete boxes
And the foxes smoked out of the den.
You've got to blur the details
To clearly see the circle's end:
So long to the best one,
It's on to the next one
To happen all over again.
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