Tip of my toe slips like a wandering tongue, And in my head, imagination blows. Dead but dope, like a payphone forgotten, Pensive of the roof above, But aloof of the world around. Wounded, yet peace inbound, Clarity unfound, scattered through this verse, Dead but dope — a fleeting curse. Drowned in melancholy of wilted field, Never seems lesser of dreams, degenerate dreamer. If we encounter each other, don't greet me, As I am more fond of silent cats than barking dogs. Dead but dope like a rose in the frost...