For how could you know what it is, when you are
Mired in ecstasy, your own private stone,
At turns of phrase tuned to immaculate bars
That become something different, what you somehow own.
You scan the tabloids for who the song's about
In lieu of looking within, for the blame
At what takes you back to your hardest bout
With sanity, drowned in waste, regret and shame
And wishing to disappear, to never feel
A thing again, that's how it turns its wheel
And you hold to its rope through darkest fog
As if it knows you, and will save you somehow,
Though it only falls, to nothing at all, down
Like any other invisible God.
