there are words that fill my heart with fright
there are syllables that I rather skip
none of them deserves the height
for giving my bones a stab of meaning deep..
trying to give purpose a name
I end up even more broken than before
what this is trying to convey is
that I better speak no more..
to write?.. The letters are a scythe blade
purposely twisted to make incisions
the thought, the thought?… What a beautiful green glade..
my mind, poor thing, a sheep grazing on illusions
my heart is pressing hot ideals
a crossroads of boiling rivers
hopes drown like gypsies close to the shores
and everything ends in the echo of the towing bells
nothing holds my interest
the ennui is dressed in fake joy
and not out of wisdom, my speech I’ll arrest
but even in my dreams I’m…
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