Hingeing A Lost Door For A Watch To Time

I Let The Street Beat Under My Foot Steps,
Never Paying A Fuck To The Empty Grey,
Keeping That In Mind... If You Have One... Could Make You Late For Work,
And I Could Let That Day Slip Through My Hands...
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Stare InTo Your Baby-Blues... Make You Sense A Pierceing Amendment From The Falling Rain...
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Not That It Should Wash You Cleaner Than A Trip To The Grave,
WeekEnds Were Made To Fill The Holes BeTwixt The Good And The Graceious,
Gravel Pits For Doom-Day Propagations And A Hedge-Clipped-Cultivated Copulation,
Straight Lines For Marching Feet To The Shakeing Of A Tail,
Carnations And InCarnations... The Flower Children Cup Their Hands...
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I Let The Street Bleed Under My Foot Steps...
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There Is Only The Shared Sense Of Breathing As I Get Closer,
I Can See Where Some Hide Their Sweat Under The Clouds That Burst,
ThunderHeads To Order With... To Blend InTo... The Wrath And Its Hidden Dread Becomes UnNoticeable For The Five-To-Nine Percent,
EveryThing ALong The Way BeComes A Thinning Streak...
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The Flower Children Have Now Folded Their Hands...
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Is There AnyThing Left UnSacred And UnTouched?
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Beating And Bleeding,
The Streets Have NoThing Else To Bare.