She wove me a web - of thread, and colour captured in patterns of pain and passion.
She laboured her love for me for hours and hours,
As she looped each dream around a bare steel wire that is being forced into a path
That must meet the following vein leading to the outer circle.
No, it's not her fault, she labours in love.
She doesn't know that I slept with spiders in my bed last night.
No they weren't there because I didn't clean my room.
They were there weaving my old memories into a web of their own,
And hanging by the sticky, grey threads waiting to meet me halfway
Between my dreams and nightmares.
No, there's nothing wrong with me.
My dreams are just a tad bit darker than hers,
And his', and theirs and yours
I dream of dark places sometimes
I dream of decay, of death, of autumn, of winter.
I dream of things that can't be spoken of and people who can't be named.
I dream of times when I've been left aghast under the weight of my own desires.
I dream of being held captive by the misery of resounding silence of solitude.
I dream of being allowed to mourn.
Time and again I will go back to the places where it smells of his fresh cigarette ash,
To the sound of his walking stick hitting the ground in his rhythmic motion of
Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick.
I look for that pattern of eight constantly in the beats of a drum,
in the time signature of a song.
I'll even count my steps sometime to match that pattern
Or hold onto the second arm of the clock and break into ticks of his walking stick.
I'll await a cold winter's spell to seep into my open pores
And the fog to cloud my senses numb,
Just to feel that wrinkle of old, drying, scabby skin on my arm.
The way the middle of my arm would feel when they wouldn't stop poking his bony limb
To find his veins to inject him with the venom to kill the cancer that had been eating away at his flesh.
See I have tried to feel his pain, I wouldn't lie.
I have wished for that disease to eat away at my living being, just so I could feel closer to him.
I told you this wasn't a dream you'd want for me.
This is the dying wish of a living soul.
Just so I wouldn't forget what he looked like,
What he wore,
How he spoke,
How he smelled,
What he imbibed for me.
This is somewhere between a nightmare and a dream.
This is just where I want to be.
Will she catch this dream for me?
She laboured her love for me for hours and hours,
As she looped each dream around a bare steel wire that is being forced into a path
That must meet the following vein leading to the outer circle.
No, it's not her fault, she labours in love.
She doesn't know that I slept with spiders in my bed last night.
No they weren't there because I didn't clean my room.
They were there weaving my old memories into a web of their own,
And hanging by the sticky, grey threads waiting to meet me halfway
Between my dreams and nightmares.
No, there's nothing wrong with me.
My dreams are just a tad bit darker than hers,
And his', and theirs and yours
I dream of dark places sometimes
I dream of decay, of death, of autumn, of winter.
I dream of things that can't be spoken of and people who can't be named.
I dream of times when I've been left aghast under the weight of my own desires.
I dream of being held captive by the misery of resounding silence of solitude.
I dream of being allowed to mourn.
Time and again I will go back to the places where it smells of his fresh cigarette ash,
To the sound of his walking stick hitting the ground in his rhythmic motion of
Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick.
I look for that pattern of eight constantly in the beats of a drum,
in the time signature of a song.
I'll even count my steps sometime to match that pattern
Or hold onto the second arm of the clock and break into ticks of his walking stick.
I'll await a cold winter's spell to seep into my open pores
And the fog to cloud my senses numb,
Just to feel that wrinkle of old, drying, scabby skin on my arm.
The way the middle of my arm would feel when they wouldn't stop poking his bony limb
To find his veins to inject him with the venom to kill the cancer that had been eating away at his flesh.
See I have tried to feel his pain, I wouldn't lie.
I have wished for that disease to eat away at my living being, just so I could feel closer to him.
I told you this wasn't a dream you'd want for me.
This is the dying wish of a living soul.
Just so I wouldn't forget what he looked like,
What he wore,
How he spoke,
How he smelled,
What he imbibed for me.
This is somewhere between a nightmare and a dream.
This is just where I want to be.
Will she catch this dream for me?
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