baby sun

Wednesday, ‎May ‎30, ‎2013

It’s a sour taste,
If I have to utter my next genre of change to my lips
Its madness if non makes sense to a deaf audience
But the valley of depth never stops to get the letter of his own self proclaim
A substitution speaks to himself as a masked demon for virtual reality
Waiting to get out of system, dying to claim
It’s a melodramatic deliverance of transformation nothing but temporary
But self replicating; self destructing in some memory
Where hatred is slowly wielding him, devouring every sheer therapy
Feeding on every rain, dancing on deserted flame
And before he forgets seething fails
Nothing remains on the love of idle hands name


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