What's Become

Travel through time.
Galaxies paint pictures
On a canvas made for martyrs;
Made for corners in prostitute rooms.

Such filthy dust hides the glory.
Blood travels down the nose-
Smell the iron and taste the spice.
This is where fifty grand will get ya.

Underneath the sheets lies felonies
Made for Hollywood Grammy winners.
Hungover at coffee shops-
Sipping down the memories.

Saints aren't that better
Than the devils they damn.
And here- a hand....

Of the corpse you've created.