Your shape becomes transparent
Hands that spoke for you,
Now linger in this demise
Leave no clue, maybe tomorrow
Hope is one filthy bastard, isn’t it?
Maybe the day after, maybe never
You are bartered, material for sentiment
Word for word. You are not ready
My trademark is the wind. What’s yours?
Kind of like, a crying violin
The man in the sky takes credit for
Borrowings, these. Carefully spilling unto your sponge-like swaying