let me go...
what's the benefit of change?
At exactly 5:34 a.m.,
there's still a vigor in me.
, shrouded by the bedsheets
under the core of a darkened sky;
the rims dipped in a slight gold.
the conscience is a precious and mighty dictator.
the eyes are shut,
the doors are shut,
the hands are shut,
the flight to a drunk crossover between fantasy and memory has begun.
there's an intoxicated sliver of love
standing as the smoking building downs,
there's a ceiling of pulsing veins
pumping the necessities of like through them, the misery and vivaciousness;
I've divorced logic.
Lust has been my lover;
I see undoubtedley that my intentions and affections were pure,
though my actions may have been faulty.
The role of mediocrity and characterlessness
is easy to play
the dullness that decrees
is apparent each day,
at least from blurry, determined vision.
my only way of expressing culmination
sifting and settling like heavy fog,
those sweet, soft lips whispered sharply in my ear:
"I'm not real - "
and the features dissapeared.
At exactly 5:48 a.m.,
there's still a vigor in me,
just as spots of the conscience are materializing back,
and sorely grasp the realization
that the only things currently real
are the exhaustion caking my eyes,
and the whimper on my mouth.