Romance is dead,
love has fled,
lust is just,
hate creates;
these lonely souls
that take the melancholy stroll.
Our hearts in a turmoil,
what do we do with these echoes
that growls and grumbles?
In the early morning wisps of smoke,
those endearing midnight strokes.
Where we find ourselves;
alone, drinking out of the bliss canteen.
Feb 10, 2012
Feb 10, 2012 at 3:35 AM UTC
Romance is dead,
love has fled,
lust is just,
hate creates;
these lonely souls
that take the melancholy stroll.
Our hearts in a turmoil,
what do we do with these echoes
that growls and grumbles?
In the early morning wisps of smoke,
those endearing midnight strokes.
Where we find ourselves;
alone, drinking out of the bliss canteen.
