Scraping the enamel off the century's grin The architecture of the fall won't let you in I asked the mirror for a second spin It showed a drowned city I've already been This ache has a PhD in where to begin It knows the fault lines sleeping under skin I'm the empty bed where panic checks in Folds its clothes, and waits for the end to begin My ghost is a scab I can't stop electing The portrait in the attic won't stop aging correcting I never learned the right posture for praying Just the graceful slump of the unreflected decaying The vulture calendar keeps perfect time I've taught the furniture to hold its mime No ransom note, no reason and no rhyme Just the erosion of a quiet climb Hear future fingers on the skull they prime A surface waiting for the perfect crime This isn't wounded flesh, it's just the slime Of making rooms for ghosts before their time My ghost is a scab I can't stop electing The portrait in the attic won't stop aging correcting I never learned the right posture for praying Just the graceful slump of the unreflected decaying Your curiosity has the dead stare of a hound But you're pacing on barren ground You want the autopsy, the secrets found But I buried the blade where I drowned There's a difference between digging down And being the dirt that fills the shovel's frown You, in your finite wisdom, are not crowned To catalogue the silence between the blast and the sound My ghost is a scab I can't stop electing The portrait in the attic won't stop aging correcting I never learned the right posture for praying Just the graceful slump of the unreflected decaying Glass is just sand that agreed to take blame I hold no grudges, I hold no name Just nothing at all in the middle of the flame
