The night is gone
The dream is dead
Half alive, half awake

The stones fly through my head
All I can see is red
Bloody red dripping out of my veins
Bloody Mary stripped at the bar,
while I fantasized about that guitar.

The mirror shatters from the pain
And as the image breaks and the voices faint
The empty bottle slits my throat
And frees the rum in my soul

And here comes Mary Jane now
With here pretty night gown
Blowing circles in the air
As the Waltz plays with her hair.

And we play and we dance
Until the troops fold back to the last stance
And the war is lost when it hurts the most

Life

Life, four letters defining the infinitely small time spam that we are granted with no apparent reason, other than entertaining a vicious child that is obsessed with his excessively complicated ant farm.
Yet, it is so absolute and so fragile, such a beautiful gift or just a sadomasochistic joke. Questions shooting through my mind make me pretend I’m conscious of some sort of repressive self that keeps me from being one with the universal love.
Feelings that feel so real, in spite they are just dreams of a dreaming dragon from a far away land, where the sun always sets but never rises. Where knights in shinning armours never fight, but always die.