guess this is how you master dancing with the stars
a slew of ancient footprints in the sand
So pirouette upon the roofs of houses made of cards
sell scores of petrichor in little cans
and tell them it’s ambrosia juice that gods would surely drink
to keep your hide from cracking on the street
and struggle ‘gainst the habit not to lie each time you blink
‘til the mausoleum walls stand by your feet
and to all the scratched up faces in the mirror asking “why?”
I tell you let the question be unasked
and let some new breaths restore that childlike twinkle in your eyes
and cast your cavalier laugh on the past
and to all the sickened souls, self loathing woe and inward nauseous
your chariot of vomit will come and make you well
though it might be still delayed, O this release I surely promise
and then O you will ascend from self-destructive Hell
so I know that this is what it’s like to prance among the stars
bored and out of unexplored land
and if I had a time machine I would have gripped so hard
the first time that I shook your little hand.
and every time you’re mentioned, it makes me stop and think
what if fate had simply never let us meet?
how many of us felt like ants a-drowning in a sink?
or were squirming worms at mausoleum feasts?
So suffering, my mistress, this ode goes out to you
It’s the Hallelujah you’ve been starved from hitherto
I hope you don’t mind
I really hope you don’t mind.