Philliphius

Painting that shell covered in red

You can hear but you want to smell

How can you just go over there?

You try to say but you spit instead

Poor you... Poor you...

Oh poor poet

You feed of that

Oh poor painter

You live of that

You only have to pick up your pen

Shadows and her will appear again

You know art is all that you are

But you want more, and more you will have

Death

Dark, wet, and now

Die, she won't look back

Die, Philliphius, crying is alright

Crying is alright