Is it true we all have wheels of

Seamless belief in corrosive dreams.

Those years within minute clouds

Which bend and flex their essence,

Within a powdery shade of white,

Even the skies have learned to be contrived

And every night we watch the day

Through it’s heavenly journey,

A mist in the silence speaks more than I know.

Can it be that we all see the spirits of

Castles which made it to songs before

We learned to chant the rules

Which bound them amongst greys,

And blues which only fade inside,

When we open our eyes to reveal the strings.

Every whimsical image melting freely,

Into the next pretence of chance,

But now there’s a beat of rules,

Rhythmical gestures behind our eyes,

Before we look up there’s yesterday

Trying to rain down, but the skies wait.

Pretty words are a void

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