I am the son of a treacherous hand.

Told golden and chosen and lifted to light.

Reflected in brass on the casket of hope.

In spite I decline, I decline, I decline.

Now gold turns to lead turns to acid to piss.

Naked and awake in the kitchen I see myself,

two apples and a chair,

in a house that is nonetheless collapsing from the corrosion of doubt.

From a life of the mind, from the absence of heroes,

just the buckling of foundations, just the ebbing of tides.

While this town was talking shit about itself, while I was doing likewise, while I was mouthing hymns to the walls.

Now my wounds close wearily, light is no longer with me,

only a weight I cannot lift.

A projection on the side of your house that reads I no longer have the energy for breathing.