Old familiar sights, the smell of the night.

A cut to the back of the throat,
stops the heart beating right.

Breathe it in deep
                   & close your eyes,
the promenade of bullshit cavalcades
is about to begin again:

As the world still turns,
as the Sun still burns
                    you search
for another way to escape,
another way of saying the same thing
again…

…but the images are all gone.

All that remains
                is the feeling,
the relentless bastard,
                that refuses
to be purged.