(for my mortgage on 62 Wonderland)
Getting dark beside the jail.
No one sleeps here anymore.
Shiver all you want, you'll fail.
It's just a locked-up, little door.
I almost owned, once, these cut stones.
I don't want them anymore.
I've stolen half them for these poems,
And words aren't good for settling scores.Getting dark beside the jail.
No one sleeps here anymore.
Shiver all you want, you'll fail.
It's just a locked-up, little door.
I almost owned, once, these cut stones.
I don't want them anymore.
I've stolen half them for these poems,
I never wanted homes to love.
I never pimped my words like whores.
But nothing I did want was enough
To change world's river from its course.
Steal true things, you'll have to pay.
Steal a goat, hang from a horse.
I won't come back here yesterday.
I'm done screaming. I'm too hoarse.
I own the dark all around here,
I own that house with well-lit doors.
But heaven needs to disappear.
Then we won't wander anymore.
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