Watching from afar, folded into subtleties, that good spirit
She sold herself, finally a mother, that good witch
Like a deal with fingers crossed
Like the smile in your own punch line
Locked between mirrors, forgetting who's who, that American game
Juggling in a chemical circus, Irish remedy, that boiling blood
Like a pot run over
Like a Sunday hangover
Hesitating down the marble steps, ritual by interruption, that inevitable sacrament
Snapped into visions, climbing to heaven, that deathly sleep
Like a body void of spirit
Like a secret communion
-K.M.O
OUR REFLECTION OUR IDOL 