As an art student, you’re hit over the head repeatedly with Renaissance art, so I’ve gotten a little tired of it, but something I’m not tired of is the seemingly impossible naturalistic detail attained from stone and a chisel back then.
It’s a shallow night, I guess I get it now,
Such thick air and a wet coat on my back, it’s mostly stubbornness but there’s a little substance,
I’m still curious about where the moon fits in,
I guess I always have been ever since I held something up to it and lost my sense of awe in my very own hands,
A strange, strange way to lose things by putting them away,
I lost my keys by giving them up,
I lost my head by keeping it down.
Well I also lost a gaze and a somehow more livable 106 degrees,
Sun burns my back as I head right towards my home,
What a pitiful reluctance in saying something, it should be more clear that I know here is here,
I wrote it down, in different words, but it’s written somewhere that is more there than where I am now,
Well maybe a grave elsewhere in a notebook will is an excuse to visit myself there.
Nothing lays into my shoulders now,
My collar is bare, moonlight hits my chest.