Since a measure of bullet points never suited the Free. As ink started to settle over sand and your erased ghosts of devotion
bled into naked paper. Canvas for another pretty drawing. Another overdose. Another lifetime of putting up. Selling marked tickets.
The cuts in the glint of his eye and the burns outside. The flares scorching his wrists and the gaps in his hands failing
to fling them away. Blinded to reap from the gardens in which he keeps tilling. Balancing his weights on the same beams.
Sand in hourglass. Measured and eroding. Self is what he misses in his mirrors. So he writes his lists in pen now.