Wednesday, November 7, 2012

Running Away

From streets of minds
to isles of light;
swings of the hand,
to the smoke of cigarettes;
eyes of anger,
to a sunken face;
nobody seems to be
a mirror of themselves.
Wrought by Buoyant forces,
we'll make Archimedes proud.

For Eliot prophesied that there never will be a time, after all.

For Isabella prays the cold, harsh days are but nightmares she can wake up from.

For this is just one life and nothing really matters at the end of the day. Who the heck selflessly cares for what happens to the dead, anyway?

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