THE WAY OF THE WORLD 

She's got a bloodshot soul. She lives out in the suburbs somewhere. 
She cries herself to sleep to drown the sound of time unravelling. 
She's in love with a ghost, some geeky cyberspace messiah. 
She wears her hair in braids. 
She watches dusk descend on churchyards. 
She scribbles stuff about dreams, moonbeams and neon. 
It's a crimson razorblade dawn and time sings tunes in the fire.

When she was a girl, she liked to watch the stars come out. 
Standing still as a cenotaph, watching the stars come out. 
She'd ride her bike home in the dark, the night smelled of the ditches.

It's the way of the world.