I’m not Gothic, but I’m made for the edge
I sharpen my pencils with one long steel blade
And whisper in darkness to ghosts running around.
There’s still time for me to walk away,
A path where shrunken skulls remind me
Of voices necromancy.
I’m not here for anything but tea, kind Sir,
Help me bring silence
In this sea of raindrops dragging
For my pencils and warm tea.