4:44
and the bleach burns my face,
drives holy Mother Mary deep
into these water color pages
and the most naked of eyes

4:44
and a patch for the broken
idiot soul, trained on marble
chill - pure sensation of touch
and pure synapse motion

4:44
and she sees frayed rope
tethering wild hearts, hears
the sound of black powder
lips, awash in stained melody

4:44
and the posible world exists
as we scrape off any ivy
with our own sweet posion touch
and climb our way to the heavens