[Poetry] Untitled 1.0
it's this dream, where i am flying again, sighing again
i splash through nonexistent oceans of blue, the hue of ash
and it's empty, and it's empty, i can't find you again
i and that pure white cloud, upon the uncaring cliffside dashed
it's that dream, in which you smile again, while sinking again
water comes up to your lips, touching them with sincerity
and it's not real, and it's not real, no hot sun, no warm sand
your north altered to suit the tides, and i've lost eternity
it's these dreams, with all these songs, all these wrongs, all day long again
g minor played on a broken piano, with a maestro dying of thirst for life
and it's our voices, our voices in blue, tasting of heaven
living like dying in mute images, rendered in a black and white paring knife
it's those dreams, surrounded by a score of those nightmares again
nightly tears like clockwork driven by my plastic saran-wrapped heart perish in the sun
and it's my fault, it's your fault, why white sunlight is hard to feign
when reality is crashing through the blinds at eight a.m. and my dream is undone
but love, it's the morning again, and there's the birdsong again
and the shining warmth of waking beside you chases away my demons from last night
and it's you, and it's real, and it's dear in a way that i can almost believe again
the unmarred sky looking like a truth through the window in my room on the second flight
[end]
i splash through nonexistent oceans of blue, the hue of ash
and it's empty, and it's empty, i can't find you again
i and that pure white cloud, upon the uncaring cliffside dashed
it's that dream, in which you smile again, while sinking again
water comes up to your lips, touching them with sincerity
and it's not real, and it's not real, no hot sun, no warm sand
your north altered to suit the tides, and i've lost eternity
it's these dreams, with all these songs, all these wrongs, all day long again
g minor played on a broken piano, with a maestro dying of thirst for life
and it's our voices, our voices in blue, tasting of heaven
living like dying in mute images, rendered in a black and white paring knife
it's those dreams, surrounded by a score of those nightmares again
nightly tears like clockwork driven by my plastic saran-wrapped heart perish in the sun
and it's my fault, it's your fault, why white sunlight is hard to feign
when reality is crashing through the blinds at eight a.m. and my dream is undone
but love, it's the morning again, and there's the birdsong again
and the shining warmth of waking beside you chases away my demons from last night
and it's you, and it's real, and it's dear in a way that i can almost believe again
the unmarred sky looking like a truth through the window in my room on the second flight
[end]