Beautiful isn’t it,

Still stuck in the web of your strings that you created.
Still believing that I can punch into the wind,
Or I can still sleep listening to the beats of your heart.
Knowing that all of this is a delusion,
But still when I see that painting on that abandoned wall,
That reminds me of my journey past few nights,
When I wrote with smile and divinity in the hands.
My Muse, lost somewhere.
Am I sceptic or too imaginative?
Whatever, I am tired.
Tired of looking for the perfect strings.
It’s again the same middle of the night,
Half closed eyelids,
And lids of beer cans popped before driving,
To the Journey to my dreams.
Where none of the strings are tangled and I dance freely.

Leave a Comment

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *