come gather in my lungs scottish wind belt out your blackest poems as the sea around you sings when the drone takes to the air a single note to raise my hair carry songs beyond my lungs cold scottish winds.
well, is that you in front of me? coming back for even more of exactly the same you must be a masochist to love a modern leper on his last leg. well, I am ill but I’m not dead and I don’t know which of those I prefer because that limb which I have lost well, it was the only thing holding me up.
and if I shoot at you, you should shoot at me too and we can drown in pools of the thick dark words we threw and as my face turns white. i apologise, I am sorry, it’s not your fault it’s mine.