Addicted To Chance Gigan
It sort of feels like what’s blurry is real,
roses and death’s-head moths breeding.
Oh magic mirror hanging on the wall,
please rid my mind of contamination.
Thick fog creates distorted verities.
Right becomes left and left is now right.
I must win this fight, confusion is war.
Second guesses, incomplete sentences
on purpose an important bite left out.
In a flat spin with your hands held up,
it sort of feels like what’s blurry is real.
Right becomes left and left is now right,
without a compass I’m completely lost.
Magic mirror allow me to see my path.
Better yet leave my future scrambled,
there’s an addictive quality to chance.
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