His head is a little interior of grey mirrors
Drains like water out the hole at the far end
The dead smell of fresh wounds
The white light that opens the doors
I can feel the daylight
A bonewhite light
His head is a little interior of grey mirrors
Drains like water out the hole at the far end
He suffers this desert heat
Stretching its fine, irritating sand
His head is a little interior of grey mirrors
Drains like water out the hole at the far end