What if healing is flawed?

Why these nights are so profoundly slow,

Why this time slippage feels like harking back snow

Why have I become a practicing shaman, too cold to let go

I think I might collect all the grief and make a statue museum 

Where each and every visitor partake while I grow empty 

I think I might tear apart this emptiness 

And still, find the dancing of morning rains,

The powdery rays sifting madly through the shades

Look beautiful on the opposite wall

This fresh breathing of vapors 

This murdering of principles over a bottle crash 

Especially this crash 

It's flashbacks, it's aftershocks 

Feels like a witch hunt 

In a crystal ball 

Do you know what we are doing? 

Playing on a chess battlefield

Where you have long fucked the rules

And I am the game, the pawn 

Pretending to transcend reality for what it is 

You exploit me for your prompts 

While I exploit you for the love of art.