and the white noise pressing around
there's a warm whispering in the distance
maybe someone making love so pure.
there's a breeze trying to leave this room
a tryst with the wayward wind outside
to escape to places anywhere but here
where even the stagnant air violently breathes.
the body vainly waits for the soul to return
from all it's wandering and it's yearning
each night chasing a notion to it's precipice
growing desperate but never really tired.
despite all this haze and inspissating fog
there's a shred of sensibility without any sense
because what is reality but a life devoid of hope
where the soul finds the body but not a home.
No comments:
Post a Comment