CLXI.

The soles of my shoes.
The back of your hands.
If I spilled my guts to you,
Do you think you'd understand?
From the bronze of the floor,
To your favorite glass ceiling,
I've been itching for a way out
I know you know the feeling.
A light shone through the fog.
A stack of hay burning bright.
The arsonist hates the dark,
Light the fire, escape the night.
Crooked teeth, crooked words
It's hard to keep things straight.
Off the sidewalk, crooked steps.
Headlights seal my fate.