fat Imagination

Your right,
No one cares.
There are no more tears in the windows.
Only swords.
And lies, -lots of lies.
Whimsical fog engulfing your senses.
Brain sends a signal.
Legs don’t budge.
They’re stuck on paranoia.
Of Cést la Vie.
Bricks are the shoes that you spoil yourself with.
But then!
The butler runs down the stairs yelling:
“You’re tracking mud into the parlour.”
Tripping and laughing and looking away.
You return the shoes.
Because.
It’s a brand new day.

[please go back and sing the last line]

Comments are closed.