I used to think too much within this detatched torpor.
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Sat with you, sun-drenched by radiant limpidness. Exalting vibrations of
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positivism emanate from your perfect nature.
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The intermittence of stirring lips reminds me of figh frantically demanding
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to breathe.
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The way they danced made me believe you were speaking. Stories you have
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been telling for hours.
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Words aligned in a slogan of absurdities.
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The word interpreted by your materialist constitution came from your
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deepest sentiment (I don't exist). Obviously you have been gifted with the
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most precious piece of the puzzle.
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An emblem can be artistic and attractive but its meaning can be aimless and
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unreasonable.
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Sporadic abstractions.
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Through your fractionized sculpture, Your world intertwines with mine.
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Resulting in something horrendous.
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The last dance is just another story...
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One Last Martini (but You'll Never Notice)
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| Despised Icon |
