st peter your four walls and a floor

quatremarche.

the blue on the walls
the smell of turpentine
filled the halls
the place where i used to shoot off
my mouth.

the office was dead
it was a tight place
Abella once led
but i wasnt afraid anymore
cause my name
wasn't scribed
from the celeing to the floor.

the walls were a memorial
to the gained and lost
so children never forgot.

but i've forgot.

i exist.
i exist.
i missed the gist
if i could only pull open the curtain of time
and see the boy who used to be in mine
i'dve felt.

i don't feel anymore.
the blue faded to grey
and i hope to hell
it will return someday.

the gleam.
is all i really have to hold on to
i don't ever feel myself

i look to the snow
hope
for tonite it glistens
just as much as when

i was four feet tall.