Sistine

Run over my skin, you sweet deadly sins, as sweat runs down your brow scoring one for the win. Attention begin situations relived as body leaves mind, throwing glitter upwind. And life rewinds as the sweet jazz reminds of nights at my doorstep, those black-and-white times. Carry on gently as the tired rhymes slow, and as chilly winds blow, see remnants of when you never grew old composing the prose where words work and flow. So straighten your track take the slack, sit down Jack, please slap his hands and help bring him back. Painting faces from places so lost in the cracks where pure art is found and symbolism is lacked.