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like a moth to a flame I gravitate around your flashback
I met you ( or was it the other way around?)
like an old attic haunted by bats and weaved with spiderwebs
in desperate need of a cleaning spree.

General Disposition took my hand and sewed my broken tissue with titanium
grabbed his stitches and mended all the scars
(after all, scar tissue is stronger) -
don't you know that new wings take some time to dry before they sprout in flight?

but 'twas the ghosts that kept whispering inside my ears
" run, hide, go away! this story has to be written
with ink drawn from your tears, just like before!"

is it better to be safe than sorry?
be gone and I won't see you -
I've got anathema written in my genome

with the most honest shirt to wear,
I don't know who'd crave with more ardor than myself,
your vowels and your consonants whilst
calling me "wicked!"