Dreams of the Tapping of a Typewriter

Dreary, heavy, lost, and cold

Reaching for the growing mold

I feel them bite my arms and back

Needles sprouting in my bones

Key misplaced I pick the latch

Surely they'll say the record turns

Omit the skips, and the scratches

Most of the truth, it has been burned

Excavated from the lattice

Growing mold, it is emboldened

All the while I am scolded

Set ablaze your heart still cold and

Omit the skips, scratches, and burns

Leave your face on, but be warned

I'm not the one that you have scorned

No need to worry about me when-

Everything you did will always be with you