Elroy has a smile that blocks people from his mind.
Banking on the charm of one who's never had a crime.
His murmer is a monotone, there's fake soul in his eyes.
Taunting that I try.

They inject that smile in the foul wound of the day,
willing to say anything to alleviate the pain.
If all of it's a fairy tale, they have nothing to fear.
Happy endings near.

I draw a hand like it's a hymn; it twists and curls upon my whim,
and when it spirals, doesn't stop, like spirals in crops.
And Elroy's never drawn his hand, so his are flawless. His are bland.
His muscles never condradict. His body a seive.

And I don't know the source of this, nor lime disease, nor life.
All we speak of's strife.
Elroy shows all people want to penetrate their skin.
What fluids course therein?

Elroys are the fluids, then Elroys are the clay.
Don't mistake for play.
Your life congeals, and you grow sick and die beside the truth.
Elroy is the proof.

He bottles what he fruits inside, while I erupt at every lie.
It's gastric, there's no hope for craft. Can only graft.
And I will always know myself - I weild my weapons, burn my wealth.
I am no pandora's box. I have no locks.
These ethics that I call my spine aren't free from force, aren't free from grind,
but still they never move an inch, except to cinch.
Yet Elroy is a fixture when his face becomes and outlet's
and his mouth becomes more yours than his. He cannot miss.
I draw a hand like it's a hymn; it twists and curls upon my whim,
and when it spirals, doesn't stop, like spirals in crops,
and cries at every song of hope it listens to lost on the road,
and always sure that it's alone. Carved into stone.

And I don't know if Elroy cries.