Waltz around the room with a glaze in your stare. In your tuxedo suit. I'll give it a name. Lower defenses. Lower the casket. Open the door and open the grave. Murder. Now you're doing the waltz with your murderer. Mediocrity is the killer. You find yourself helpless. Christ is not a fashion, fleeting away. He laid emeralds in her eyes, But I'd already tried a braclet made of gold And a scarlet thread around her wrist. Everything was wrong so we sang sentimental songs On how seldom we belong, but how elegant her kiss. and we painted crooked lines and we danced in perfect time to a love so much refined, we know not what it is. so like the dullen wine we poor into a grief we'd known before, but never quite like this. All i know now is regret. she follows like a silhouette of a cobblestone behind me. she has nothing left to say except to innocently ask, her voice deliquite as glass. do you see me when we pass? But i continue on my way.