Latchkey chameleons throbbing with censure,
rapt with blurs and river-burning kraken smirks -
they might never want but they won't ever stop.
Porcelain lycan sorrow aging with thirst,
grasping lungs and hugging water -
I know it's not right but I won't miss the eyes.
The fog between us is too close, too bright;
so it's not cuz you're sick, nor bitter or trite -
I just don't like the eyes, I can't sing in the light.
(when heaven roars with jealous mirth and crashing aqueous idols tear my pelt from my pride, wear what's left of me inside.. and when you get to god once you've found the right stairs, strike him down with a love-pelt umbrella)