Amused by the words I gargled,
Intoxicated by the contradiction of my words,
I’m entangled by this wet drought of inception,
And the moment of madness that had me lost in her thoughts.
The warmth, the coldness, the intrigue of strange flares,
Lost in translation but without a doubt
An adventure to be assumed;
Not presumed, as I’d venture in my drunken world
To have her reach out for my hand
And entertain my illusions for one frame of time too long
To be noticed.
Scribbling a story of our own
It is told by the nature of silence,
Come to life by the disillusion of reality
And the wrinkles of napkins that are torn or lost
In the pockets of strangers among the dark.
Where are the drawings of my misconception?
Are they kept in hiding for all to wonder,
Or do they tremble under earth,
Unwinded, unvisited,
Disoriented by a degradable sun?
But I remain by my seat,
Alone with the breath of my madness,
To implore my thoughts a rest,
To quiet down the naughty of its desire;
Though it detests keeping calm
Under the origins of secrets that need to be claimed
And revealed by the dooms of truth.
