I'm sinking in the yellow fog
Of my gold encrusted mind;
It has rusted these past few years,
And now yellow bleeds bronze
And rusted paper,
Torn by the ice on the tip of my tongue
And the daggers beneath my fingernails.

There's a universe I haven't dreamt of
Beyond these four glass walls,
But my breath steamed up my view,
So all I can see is you –
Your face in mine and your hand
Anything but.

We'll get away from here
One day,
When I can muster the courage
To say I won't stay
But until then,
We can fetch our chisel and carve in this glass
Some drawings of yellow fog to comfort me
Whilst I sleep
Beneath covers of lead,
My head sunken in a golden pillow
Of moral and loquacious order.

This will mean little to you.