And I wave to our past with a severed left hand,
The ghost feeling when it gets caught on your shoulder.
Maybe it was kept inside my sleeve to keep me quiet
And stop the bleeding of words onto a number of media,
The paper that tapers off in an incomplete thought
Or the plastic pulled apart and distraught, but store-bought.
We're either cutting down hurried trees or drilling up buried oil,
But I'm okay with how the world burns at the end of the day,
Because I remember when you used to talk to me like a stranger
And I am clever enough to keep myself out of danger like so.
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