Sickle

Of thorns and

Scrapes —

Just out of scratch,

I feel your hand

And light
The match.

Your pulse lies flatly

In your wrist —Of thorns and

Scrapes —

Just out of scratch,

I feel your hand

And light
The match.

Your pulse lies flatly

In your wrist —

I wish you\’d

Struggled

To resist…

Stars glitter skyline,

Morning melts;

Day dawns

And mounts

The regrets,

My bloodstream humming

In my ears —
Your faith in magic

Dissapears;

We\’re left with

Nothing

At the end,

So, please, live on

Or just

Pretend