the melted snows ashcan offerings

the selfish show of the subway passengers

i'm breathing in your film

my design does not fit in your matrix

i do not hide any ulterior intentions in my smile

you would rather stay inside than to not fake it

the strings holding up your mask are apparent

nobody commits to the nubile transient

for i'm making my way to my own funeral

looking for invitees to heed the procession

a butterfly's wings is enough need for evidence

that it can never quite be a possession

it's the accident that's your intention

warning you can't misstep without direction