The faces in my mind wear away,
like a butterfly they flutter across the fading fade.
Drifting into passages I once inhabited,
these faces are a match for me; kinda like Mike Tyson.
Dusty unread books quietly laugh, whilethe tree outside offers me it's weeping branch.
I am the jester behind the curtain,
a soft-shoe shuffle to an elusive realization.
The wood door handle wears away
toward the disappearing chamber-maids of yesterday.
I'm falling down again, down into the hole I go
welcome to the pretty carnival; my dusty chemical brain.
