We take
What we are given
And not a moment more
We follow
After the love
Is but a distant rapport
We circle round
Till we crash and burn
Upon a desert ground
We build sand castles
Armed with grudges
And fortified with apathy
We condense everything
To one phrase oft' repeated
And never intended
We drift aloft
On the wings of sin
Or such as it has been called
We justify
Feigning indignation
When actually it is relief
We go on
Pretending what we will
While we plot a war
We give
Only what we must
For we, in love, are poor.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment