Along the streets the words retreat into their cubby holes;

But in my mind the clocks unwind, and all the gears are cold.

In the streets the salesmen creep, selling tales of old.

Beneath the light of Rodent's fright, the faded freak show folds.

Come to me, oh Desperate child, oh ye of little faith.

I'll show you things, like ancient winds, and truths of lying wraiths.

Or the withering waves of the raving shore, as the tide bores down on us;

It brings the night and all its fears, carrying the Demon's lust.

Draw your sword, oh sufferer, and strike me to the ground;

Enjoy the sound of the stagnant blood as it leaks from Lost and Found.

Round and round we clamber down until the day grows old;

Beneath the light of leache's plight, the bleeding hearts do mold.

Along the page the words do cage me in an iron trap;

Upon the lap of Other's eyes, I bore straight down the tracks.

And in my path I leave the past and all its titled names;

They quickly rust, and hence my rush as I chase down crying shames.