mother i'm sick
soon to be a pile of dead leaves
and then where will you be
will you show yourself to me
wash rinse repeat
cold voids where hearts used to beat
shrill tones still fill calmest oceans
and those tides will bury me
and then where will you be
cold but not yet dead
wash rinse repeat
i'm painting the walls back white
there will be no work left behind
for the ones that believed in me
and the contracts will agree
and then where will you be
staring at an empty frame
