I have two spires,
and roof of the lake,
where the whistling soot
thrown over the boulevard
of a great foul heritage
generates the thing to be at rest –
the never-ending need
to have
security
But, you see,
travelling whispers
whisper wherever
My look
was married madly
to what it wasn’t worth
I appreciate the diversity in human faces, what always will be given unless we hide them away, what belies us, what we seldom see in dream, if ever, that which has ironically estranged us from itself, longing for lease to breathe, longing strangely at bay from an arrogant and dissociated intellect
Youth is all hope and helplessness, raised by media and their on-par peers – the touched hid away from the nightmarish pixel-swaddled undead of their social mien, seek the most inglorious intoxicants and stay with them for a good while – in the nation that glorifies stagnation, that in this new age after its self-styled dream has dissolved, balances and builds itself upon the cultivation of isolation – by design disguise