The dirt gets deeper every day
with prolonged moments of decay
when a blowtorch lights the way.

I count the hours in your eyes
the hopeful tale within me dies
sensations turn to shallow lies.

We pack the past away in crates
my knees bear many silent scrapes
this wasn't wine, but sour grapes.

Reality ends my dreams of you,
sad reflections in eyes of blue
when the shine is rusted through.

Forget me, I didn't really matter
I didn't give you love to flatter,

we're the fools who now know better.