Well I guess I've made it back up to the top...
So when will the wandering sleepwalkers drop?..
Running out of ink in glass-candied pop...
Ceasing to exist inside love's secret shop.
But if I step into the other white room...
I sweep up the ashes with my razor-wire broom...
In a three-ring-circus, dancing with doom...
Don't look now but the enemy's in bloom.
Brain waves consuming the pilot's flight...
In motion-sickness, circles, blurring the sight...
Wearing eyes on your sleeve throughout the night...
Holding the hands of the deadliest twilight.
The sun is raining down upon the shy smoke...
And the sea is wrapped up in it's feverish cloak...
When you get where you ended up, into a choke...
It's a hard hold on the lungs, but drowning's no joke.
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