When the ink is dry,
Or at your deathbed,
You can damn your poison words.
It seems you have run out of regard
For moralistic ideals.
Just turn your head
When confronted with the truth
And hope that your new life
Is all that you wished for.
Adjusted the definition of loss.
Is it just coincidence
That it fits so well here?
Restitution comes passing through
And it won't even walk through the first door. Face north and greet the cold
That times your pulse.
North, directionally outright,
Straightforward.
Face north and greet the cold
That times your pulse.
North, truest of all points.
Points, that you have failed to make.
