Saddest Faces

the saddest faces, to me, are the ones smiling,
in all their blissful glory, soon to fade,
the final page of their picture-book story.

ice forms at the brim of my glasses,
sicles sliding down past my waist.
their points are round, but sharp
enough to pierce the skin with proper grace.
cut. master the wounds, freeze-dry the burns,
slide off the globe, as the wheels turn.

the sadest faces, to me, are the ones smiling,
in all their blissful glory, soon to fade,
the final page of their picture-book story.

ink stains, an image plain, pay to see.
an off-centered cut, full set of memories,
ones so happy you forget the scenes.
and you count on me to recount them,
list them off in some poetic rhyme.
the beauty you see, is nothing to me,
but just another fucking line.

[instrumental]

i left him laying in the skylight,
where the crowds could all gaze,
fucking eyes, open wide, staring high,
for his dark silouhette to fade into his face
crashing down through unbroken glass
onto the ground, chalk outlines to be erased,
a figment of a forgotten past.

the sadest faces, to me, are the ones smiling,
in all their blissful glory, soon to fade,
the final page of their picture-book story.