So now I'll get down to it.
Time to squeeze out meaning, arm locked around it and straining.
And I won't ask anyone to validate it;
it has to be something of worth, doesn't it?
I won't stop this short, regroup and cook up a remedy
of one more thing I broke but left sitting.
I won't.

There is some putrid lining
between a thing I need, but am only wanting.
And it's been such a short distance
to be tired from, but I'm a fool;
I'll go back trying to mend dead things.

I can't feel my hands or see, I think.
Because there's just nothing there, and I know they're lying.
It exists, that wordless treasure;
that vision in eyes blind from birth;
the last song that needs to be written.
We're only strays.