Spattered ceiling, rustic floor
An intrusion on past folklore
Lying next to the history of art
These two hearts, years apart
Walls of time expand
only echoes emanate from this stand
And in this place I constantly push
For liquid minds eventually drown
Closed eyes, and I only listen
Pulse. Pulse. Pulse. Pulse.
Aorta's magma winds throughout
Giving life to eyes for sure
And they continue to refocus
Spattered ceiling, rustic floor.