shaken, not disturbed: that's how i take my tonic now.
iíve got the setup of a true neurotic
(just ask Sylvia)
but these dead girl hands won't shake
anymore. the floor drops out from under me.
i swallow my deja vu and
I know that this is what i chose.
this lovely, terrible, glorious demise
is of my own design: a funeral for those who are still alive.
They've left us in the liars' den.
desperately kissing the bittersweet
ashes that fall from the sky,
snowflakes damned to hell.
i must agree with the dead-red snow: there is
no way out this time.
i stare at the stars and tarot cards and
they tell me the
same damn thing. they twist themselves into
cautionary tales as the clouds
argue amongst themselves.
itís not the same, not the same, the mocking birds call.
but Theyíre wrong. itís all the same.