I never considered myself your martyr.
Faking every twitch of my service,
captivated by the chaos of your pupils,
dashing, splintered arcs, covering the lighthouse,
I think that I remain safe in disguise.
We're all porpoise, sacrificial flavoring,
daring to be clever, something like that.
It ends up meaningless, when we talk,
consider it my fault.
If this is my last mistake,
I'm taking everyone else out with me.
Nothing could have signalled this collapse
as clearly as your crushed anatomy.
I'm waiting out anniversary trials.
I'm sifting through holy tragedies.
I'm giving us purpose.