Finite

The spark of glitter
in my eyes,
the shakes, the jitters,
I can't deny.
I hear a song,
can't make the words.
I sing along.
I think you heard.
Air in my hair,
you in my blood,
somehow I'm there
in the moon and the sun.

But it's finite and fake,
fever dream, not fact;
it's the best we can make;
it's a suicide pact.
I can't breathe.
My voice is choked.
I'm underneath
a heavy cloak.
Alone in blackness,
covered in scars.
I think the blackness
overtook the stars.

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"And you are graceful and absolutely fake." Kevin Devine Working in Quiet

"I am covered in skin; no one gets to come in." Counting Crows Color Blind