The month grows cold

Forsaken morning glory
Casting spells, deviance to mark a point
Generally speaking, plain fuckery
I would sell my secrets
But I cannot pronunciate jokes
Without shiver and penance in my spine
For a moral compass, no two ways about it.

I came to pick up the habit
Of scratching my wrists
Tapping the fingers in solace
That my nerves would erupt
Through supersticion and shame, exposed
Knock on wood, it shan't be a rouse
Of acting cold towards, what was it again?

Absolutely maddening growing old
When one sees rogues at every turn
Devils in disguise, beckoning at the shadows
So far, ah, oh, ha, mhm..
To course skin through fingertips
A sign of life, pleasing in commodity
In need of a new lead, a plan to follow up
To the truth in someone else's eyes...