With good graces, and vacant vacation spaces,
Visit with the artist, he memorised all your faces.
With maximum effort, and a Deadpool high-five,
What good does it to pick a colour, to prove I am alive…
Withholding better judgement, and rational disdain,
Ghouls, agents of our downfall— Tableau of live-in pain.
Without sinners and saints, the truth runs thick and fast.
Automated mannerisms, our kind, that’s built to last.
Withering heights, God rest the dead, in bits and degrees.
It was never that he’s always watching, I question what he sees.