days are falling past me
and i'm floating in the peachpit.
but there's glitter on the skyline;
it's forming arrows in the daytime,
it wants to carry me
straight down the rivers
to those streets made of grime,
yet they are all made of gold.
and they are all creaking secrets
that are being whispered
but never told

i am leaving the peachpit
i'm escaping the chokehold

i'm leaving for those golden streets
the city where the skyline meets
& i swear that their secrets won't be sold
because in my eyes, grime, is not a gold.