i'm a prisoner,
cuffed to familiar
with an almost belief
not a enough for religion.
you're the quicksand
of expectation
suffocating under skeletons,
the weight of wasted time.
i almost meant
what i didn't say
to save this place;
rescue possibility.
what we were in the mirror,
neither adequate nor compatible,
clowns among traitors.
we were always dancing alone.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment