The moment when explanations are only words
and their poison,
when the city is spaghettios
and the cook is bleeding all over it,
when death is a wooden box
and nothing is in it,
when mirrors are the only expression
and glass sinks inside my eyes,
when fame is hard work
and the labor unions fall apart,
when love is everything
and I just need a screw,
when war is just threats
and not ashes
when my friends, my psychoanalysts,
are the ones I need least.
Δεν υπάρχουν σχόλια:
Δημοσίευση σχολίου