There's paper tigers,

and paper champions,

but I never heard about,

all of the paper ghosts.

 

Their soft, word-down exteriors,

only matched by empty souls, begging,

for validation and a new existence,

finding only shit and piss,

and settling for the sewers.

 

Your soul was rotten,

and died long ago;

I remember,

don't you?

Failure,

eighty-two stories high,

and stacking even higher,

nobody will build your Lego failure with you,

I'm bored, he's ill-equipped,

and everyone else got out of town,

when they saw the change happening.

 

No one waits for a one-sided conversation,

or the broken light pouring out of a dim bulb,

that used to shine as bright as the noon sun.

 

Fading fast,

but not fast enough,

it would seem.

 

A pale horse is a better visage,

than the one of pale whores,

you were well-known for;

 lack of stamina

diseased

worn-out

left in the

cold

finally lonely

stories always end

there

life never does.