Look at this broken spine

Look at this dusty cover (of trite and boring tradition)

Color me black and white,

Leave me between the pages filled with paragraphs of Capulet’s and couplets scrapped of a once-wished happy ending.

Nevertheless the story goes half as well as we are told.

Nevertheless I feel my temples grey like herrings red and everything that you said.

So I’ll pray for a better existence without contrition

I’ll find my way

This traditions growing old and it leaves my head more holed than wholesome

Let flames lick the wax off my forehead, smoothing the cracks as we pool to the ground

(It’ll leave you as empty as church bells) Church bells swinging their song to the libertine fields.

It makes no difference-

A cry for help or the coda, hell,

Its just music to your ears

So I’ll pray for a better existence without contrition My head’s more holed than wholesome Lovebirds sing, jailbirds swell for a rabid crowd all hungry for their fall

Undo the censer from under my chin–

I’m born again.