Pale (2:21)

it’s not a regression, but it’s a standstill,
continuous broken continuity,
you see a pale world behind swollen eyes.
Tired legs tap off-tempo to the sound of a new song,
and old teachings swell from throats of the past.
You say a leopard can change it’s spots,
but you still can’t see rainbows,
it’s like a masterpiece painted with broken brushes
and your belief lies in torn pages.
Your belief lies in torn pages,
torn pages that writhe and run down a path untrodden.
Cold hearts beat inside broken cages.

These heads lay buried in books,
false script clothing their ears.