But He's a Smoker

Who cares about a pair of glazed-over eyes? 

Wouldn't you be more intrigued to find out why they're that red? 

To find out what's behind them? 

Who is in that little operating room, if anyone at all?

Have they left? Long-term, short-term? 

No one wants to look into my eyes

for any reason other than to frame me. 

Under surveillance. Somewhere between

inhaling tar and vomiting nicotine

- or was it cough syrup- 

I was hiding in my skin again. 

Only the real god knows who I am,

and we haven't spoken for centuries.

But I still like you.