Stripped of all the colors that create me,
Bare as the bones beneath my skin,
These streets that once knew my name,
Hold the memories that have worn me thin.
In the avalanche of praise, in the casket
Of sculpted doubt,
We create the broken maze,
Where there is never one way out.
In the worn judgments, and plays,
We’re all designed some mercy pit,
Where the game is deigned,
But played so well in spite of it.
Ah we strangers of the nooses,
Hang from tongue, and memory,
Where there is no room to break the surface,
No, there is barely room to breathe.
Stripped of all the color’s that create me,
I see how each story always will end the same,
But in the consecration of each great illusion,
There is not even room for blame.