I carry my sins like nails in my palms,
Buried deep within me, unified inside my flesh and blood,
Transforming the rest of my life as the Eucharist for my mistakes,
Perpetually confessing to faceless strangers for a night,
Different versions of Soma and Wilkinson classics.
When you constantly run on empty fuel,
You eventually start yearning for companionship.
So I call them to join me, knee-deep in fish nets and salt water,
And pepper them with promises of fulfillment and bottomless wine,
Of reincarnations and resurrections,
You too can be Lazarus —
You can leave this cadaverous flesh,
I can spark your lifeless days with sprinkles of euphoria and chemical highs.
Welcome to the simulacra, my sweets,
These sweet streets all over you now, my dear.
A pilgrimage to hunt that who can forgive,
The Canterbury tales of the lost and the damned.
Flights of the homeless, fights of the brave,
Mindlessly seeking comfort from that which is destroying you,
Knowing that it is either you make this thing inside you last,
Or forever climb, frazzled, jarred, exhausted and depleted,
Giving it all for one, short glimpse of the horizon,
Diminishing returns until we reach the point of
Judases, all of them.
Thirty silver pieces for all of who I am.
This is what it feels to live on borrowed time, my love,
Borrowed time is all I have.