Lightning crashes.
Scenery of Christmas lights and carnival delights.
Wishes of "wish you were here" and feelings of gladness that you're not.
Nothing here but invisible trees and extending branches.
Brains wired and falsely ecstatic.
Minds clouded with wonder.
Feet soaked in mud.
Lives filled with dirt, but not tonight.
Six feet under we're covered with dirt, but not tonight.
Music in our ears of deafly heard dreams, clouded by the constant ringing of sober-less memories, filled with invisible sounds of the undergrounds we so deftly tried to forget.
A house of cards, knocked down but slowly rebuilding in this temporary paradise.
We're all strange here; we're all separated by our hopes.
To drink, to drive, to live, to be buried, to stay alive, to not be buried alive.
On the edge of summer, on the edge of beginnings, on the beginnings of an end.
Passion is a pit for dead lovers. Dead lovers lie naked in the mud. Mud covers footprints of those who were here.
Puddles by morning.
Brains in a puddle, minds in a haze.
Lifeless gazes from across wet grass.
Is it dew from rain or are we due for rain?
What's the point of being wet, if we're dry in our souls?
Nothing matters, the eyes disappear into huddled masses.
Under your umbrella, under my last chapter, under our life's story.
Sun comes again, the great big wheel.
Omitting true light to those who hate it, no matter how deep their hate is driven like snow.
Lightning crashes.