Gerunning

Talking horror with murderers
Is talking too soon,
Walking the moon across a true sky
Until you're the one who turns blue
Holding your breath,
But running a mouth so dry.
I am every plane that flies
Over the horizon
And in it, it dies.
Predetermined like barcodes,
It is generic, all the same.
They scan the bars like prison guards
And place numbers for your name.
You counted me out,
The lions are caged and whipped and they shout.
You are nothing but skin, beneath and above,
Blind to the touch wearing fake leather gloves.
You gave me your lions, but you were the beast,
A confirmation as sure as this ticket back east.