Wretched
Wretched is the landscape of our nomenclature I have no father here In this dark car, With the shadows of rain drops Running down my face, My fingers running through your graying hair There is only A ghost of myself and how I used to be And what I used to say and do. And only you. Wretched is the landscape of our nomenclature So we don't speak. Too many rules came pushing in, Too much space between us Only skin. Only flesh. Only sin.
