I soaked in it twice

and it ran down my thumb.

The blood from the glass

was all that was strung

on your piano

and in the souls of stars;

the beating of the drums

and the strumming of guitars.

I played with your lyrics

and I ate them for dinner.

I was the world’s biggest fan,

and hell’s worst sinner.

It wasn’t long before the album

flew back in my face.

The tracing of time

and the unfolding of space.

Tripped up in between

was where I belonged,

before you moved on

and waved ‘so long’.

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