In this grotesque
This rigid beast
We proselytise
To a ceiling, vaulted and gay
Bandage my wrists
Find an open window

These clouds
Are our pillowed grace
Bruise knees
Find oaths that remain
Money is chaos of sound
As it bounces from this ground

In disgrace
Finds me wanting
A door to another
Lifted space
These spirits sing like angels
When they weep


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