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Can you see what’s following you,
it has a mind of its own,
steps so quiet you can’t hear it,
a parasite without a home.

It’s got a smile, but you don’t trust it
concrete reasons unknown.
Put it behind you in the space of your day,
a parasite without a home.

Leave her to sing her withered songs,
in tunnels painted like the dawn,
bring me,
the echo till it’s gone.

Nothing escapes this hold,
desperate against the cold,
it's flesh made out of stardust,
iron oxide into rust.

To write a letter to the night,
this songless, sightless, silent giant,
this feeble plea,
a speck of sea,
a drop of dust,
- it’s locked in you and me,
rip it out and feel it’s heat,
forget the way things seem to be;
meaningless to the one and only.

And she’ll be standing while you suffer,
her hair is lost in storm,
open your mouth,
and let air. Rush. In.
to get a sense of her form.

But if the audience is imminent,
and if your parasites come home,
remember the old adage:
deep roots are not reached by frost.

Leave her to her withered songs
Tunnels painted like the dawn
Write a letter to the night
Sightless, songless, silent giant

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