On the edge of life,
Not playing with fire,
No games with a knife,
Just needles and liars.
Into the vein of truth,
A path of clarity and hurt,
Perched on the ledge of a roof,
Where all is brightness and dirt.
The spinning carousel of time,
Where everything is confused,
Without reason or rhyme,
But my heart’s alive; enthused.
Crashed beneath hellish ground,
The heat melts my senses,
The fear deadens the sound,
As I’m swallowed through the defences.
Aug 28, 2012
Aug 28, 2012 at 6:31 AM UTC
On the edge of life,
Not playing with fire,
No games with a knife,
Just needles and liars.
Into the vein of truth,
A path of clarity and hurt,
Perched on the ledge of a roof,
Where all is brightness and dirt.
The spinning carousel of time,
Where everything is confused,
Without reason or rhyme,
But my heart’s alive; enthused.
Crashed beneath hellish ground,
The heat melts my senses,
The fear deadens the sound,
As I’m swallowed through the defences.
written in 2009
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