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A rising tide spent drowning in days lost to one heart's final lament.
Thrown off like grins known only to the dead.
Plastered behind scarlet eyes,
stinking of tomorrow.
I say that once a letter is written-
it's not so easily sent.

Like trying to find 2 of 3,
but settling for one of me instead.
It's a hard faith to follow:
the constant give without the take;
after the scraping through it's one less heart to break.
A head above water for the eyes held under
a lasting plea for the lost mind torn asunder.

Nothing but fair trades and farewells,
when the present tense reveals a sixth sense,
when you'd die for a word or one less empty shell.

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