5. Casting Lots

It's much more horrifying when slowed to a crawl.
Old blood in pools collecting the dirt of the world as it cools.

And we grow warmer inside
walls inside walls inside walls... like Russian dolls.
Old sayings... still we hear things, though long gone off.

And I don't really know what my friends look like
in a good light
I only see their faces covered in shadows,
warped in amber bottles
But I know this:
they're the most beautiful sons of bitches.

Always throw my heart in with a dying lot.
Soon put to rest, sealed tight, covered before their best can be heard.

The best hidden inside
walls inside walls inside walls... like Russian dolls.
Old houses... still rented out. How we've come off.

Still I feel that bump in the night, like an elbow nudge,
stumbling past
then back again; shifting bodies, heavy breathing.
Only skeptically brief.
It may have been a ghost.
It may not have been at all.

Footsteps slow, heavy, haunting the halls.
It may have been a ghost.
It may not have been at all.

There’s just this solitary regret nailed into me,
one thing yet to make its peace:
having never seen you at your best.