At the opposite end, of the hospital pair, of empty pay public binoculars,
Slump facing in your way, in the dead of the stare, you marvel about until you eye this one
door that appears to be both half open and closed, a nerve drawn moth to the bulb,
Head down as if reeled around a gear by the guts, inclining towards your intuit picked portal of choice,
Now often not, yet of nerves on this moment of mostly glory, you look for the knob and see nothing but this healed shut keyhole,
Dax-strong in this dream you begin to cut key
In the further cornest of a clearest skull when you feel your kneecaps being nursed
By white on white, welcome magic till, she scar to read woe, become only one
In the mirror on hands and heart for verge lift she mad jacket in her
And with it's omen, and brought it zits, and in the tight wishbone you care for a lift
Your instrument was left at the door and she slowly unclutches the car seat sack
When it's keyhole to me, and so you snap this bone car wish in the lockpick
Until you hear through the click of door the dead bolt coughed in suddenly
To feel God above your skull, beneath your skin; goes wild (x8)
