These words I used to write will sing no more
For no one's here and everyone is left.
These songs are haunted mansions on my cliff
Crumbling in derelict decay.

What will we do with all this broken wood?
Lonely normal snails are strange and meet.

So now you know,
So what else is to hide
When you flog and whip indiscriminately
This excommunicated horse.
This pinata is dead.

To be cold, to be empty because
Nothing will change.

To be unfeeling, to be black because
To be otherwise would make no difference.

To be alone, to wash white
To embrace
To fear
To need.

That I were not alive.