Fallacious masks embodied with despondency and pessimism;
Darkened notions of subconciousness painted with an agglomeration of colours and shapes.
We are too naïve.
A plinth of porcelain holds an emptiness full of blasphemy,
As if it were an ornament of the prodigal son.
Our insides turn from white to crimson,
And the outside world maintains its tarnished brass colour,
Counterfeiting gold.
We are all covered in the inordinate dirt of our sins.
Wash your body well and let the blue lead you home.
Jan 21, 2017
Jan 21, 2017 at 6:37 PM UTC
Fallacious masks embodied with despondency and pessimism;
Darkened notions of subconciousness painted with an agglomeration of colours and shapes.
We are too naïve.
A plinth of porcelain holds an emptiness full of blasphemy,
As if it were an ornament of the prodigal son.
Our insides turn from white to crimson,
And the outside world maintains its tarnished brass colour,
Counterfeiting gold.
We are all covered in the inordinate dirt of our sins.
Wash your body well and let the blue lead you home.