i play such a good

sane game

nobody believes

where i go

you know i hoped i would grow

but i just got old

and my paint blooming off of me

is exposing all these holes

heaven, a museum of dead angels

and in my mind they do what i tell them to

fallen in impossible angles

and unable to do what they're built to do

drift away

snares and lines behind

catch nothing on me

that i need

comes a time when the last bit

of skin yields to scar

and that tissue is all you've got

keeping you here

dancing with invisible anglers

and when i'm done carefully remove the curl

sinking far past the surface

and the net drops me from rafters to underworld

string me up

high as god

so i don't

fall again