With the realm of dying sun
I enjoy cold truth of gun,
Pulsing in my bored hand,
With a dream of making bang.
I think about sticking feelings, *sticking fingers*
Except the gloomy insert twilight,
Fulfilling me with constant apathy
Instead of lost forever empathy.
I won’t remember sense of humor,
What wanna rescue lonely human.
Forgive me missing simple things,
I hear calling silent rings.
But may be after distant after –
Without ever word “disaster”
I’ll understand that only you –
My always hurting Deja Vu.
7.03.01
Decadence 4 Dead Can Dance
© Copyright: Артемка, 2001
Свидетельство о публикации №101091000230
Свидетельство о публикации №101091000230
Рецензии