Spinning walls of paint and mud
reflect a battered soul,
confused and used and setting out
to theme parks made of holes.
Each and every poisoned ride
painted in my fears,
burns up the trees and down the leaves
soaking dry my tears.
Tears of blue from times of joy
drip until they're red,
from violent dreams with violent themes
of dancing with the dead.
Somehow those evil bloody dreams
comfort me in sleep,
for when awake I cannot take
the single smallest leap.