Sanity runs parallel to the immense incongruity of life,
We warship hallucinations while **** the illusive reality,
Whatever’s left is a yester year’s fairy-tale.
We tell our stories in second person narrative because
We sleep round the clock, chipping in rationality,
Consciousness overdosed, passion ridiculed.
When your silence sounds louder than the screams,
Broken like misinterpreted sign, lonely like a grim grimace,
Our paths diverge, converge if they may,
For mystery is what our answers glorify while bittersweet memories live on.
Nov 19, 2014
Nov 19, 2014 at 3:11 PM UTC
Sanity runs parallel to the immense incongruity of life,
We warship hallucinations while **** the illusive reality,
Whatever’s left is a yester year’s fairy-tale.
We tell our stories in second person narrative because
We sleep round the clock, chipping in rationality,
Consciousness overdosed, passion ridiculed.
When your silence sounds louder than the screams,
Broken like misinterpreted sign, lonely like a grim grimace,
Our paths diverge, converge if they may,
For mystery is what our answers glorify while bittersweet memories live on.
