| Back to Reality |
[Mar. 11th, 2005|07:19 am] |
Names are chains, to strain you into certain identity, things never tangibly spoken, spicy lips curling, forever cynical. Tattoo, joy and motorcycle, weapens yet not too sharp, twice you fight a why.
This time you play, with romantic mystery, like a puzzled psychic, holding out your left hand to touch. Delicate bud, so sexual that you tangle. They are your world, one thousand miles away from reality. Creatures all visional beings, only senses undying.
Your stage aloft high, higher than the reality earth, as if on the cloud, your king of Arthur kneeling to surrender his sword. Yet a thespian doesn't pity, they living in tragedies.
Life will offer you, in the end, reality. |
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