slavish and cold, we sink into the fake velor of plush forgiveness.
slipping through the nights and spaces between our gaping holes of sickness
like two splinters of wood, under the skin,
long grown over but not yet numb.
there are no more loopholes to keep us tied up,
no more strings to tie us apart,
now only space is left to listen while faith crumbles.
the world we know, grinding itself to dust.
