i play such a good
sane game
nobody believes
where i go
you know i hoped i would grow
but i just got old
and my paint blooming off of me
is exposing all these holes
heaven, a museum of dead angels
and in my mind they do what i tell them to
fallen in impossible angles
and unable to do what they're built to do
drift away
snares and lines behind
catch nothing on me
that i need
comes a time when the last bit
of skin yields to scar
and that tissue is all you've got
keeping you here
dancing with invisible anglers
and when i'm done carefully remove the curl
sinking far past the surface
and the net drops me from rafters to underworld
string me up
high as god
so i don't
fall again
