our empty steps that will never rhyme
echoe like lonely chords in a wide row
a wild street of desillusions and broken hopes
he hands me the only lasting flower from the little garden
I hear the sound of mandolins
and the whistle of clouds.
He takes me down to a land of frightening mystery
and confusing symbology
Like the cristian weaved to a cross
you're my anchor
holy wine
sacred flesh
and although all these words are useless and hideous
they sound pretty when it's about you
they evoke the magical presence of you
which emancipates silence
and melt hearts in burning fire
builds new leaves to a dead tree
nature of my core.
I long to be timelessly drowned in your light and bitter green waters.
always compared you to an ocean; sincere and deep
Am I the only one who can see through?
Search behind your eyes for a button to press...
..............a place to arrive?
...............a garden to rest?
...............a fulfill for the emptiness?
...............a road to follow?
will I find that in you?
it seems like I have.
But I miss you already.
Nenhum comentário:
Postar um comentário