All this concrete in my veins, replete with an obelisk for a heart,
Looking, staring, ice inside every part of my caring,
Cracked into pieces like the toy of a child,
Left in a vacant parking lot,
For the wolves to gorge,
For the sun to rot.
There isn’t anything inside me anymore,
Empty tin can that slices your fingers,
And the blood runs dry as bad dust,
No lust, no nothing,
Just a frigid oven.