Words become marching bands, flash backs in our plans. Fueled with Feelings that desert us with souls that unfold us. Catching reflections of sifting eyes breaking the night down into stages of truth. The truth you have made abundantly clear, the kind the bottle has not settled. The dark color of the morning haze it shares with a gripping stare, although you never saw it that way. Making smiles praise with swift panic. I hide my heart in a bottle, in hopes that with age it will disappear. But like everything I hide it always comes back to haunt me. Money can only heal your bills; it’s the hearts that holds you above clouds of judgment that make you grow. The same hearts can also crush one’s self with pain and blind with utter appeal to joy. That part wasn’t supposed to rhyme, because the truth is never pretty.haha Too look for someone like you again, I need a vintage 72 and a wish to come true. Bon Voyage
Posted on: Mon, 12 Aug 2013 06:09:10 +0000
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