The broken-bottled dregs unneeded for conviction anymore.
The faded green's allure.
At climbing from my concrete island home;
Forgotten what those broken legs were for.
I'll leave behind the tyranny of signs,
Transparent things you hold on to.
I know what's mine,
A greying field of sky,
And in whose grip I lie.
Pain no less,
Forgotten what my failing eyes had seen–
Once so excessive,
Now so lean.