Prepositional Incarnations
You can tell me that death is forever
That beauty in strange places
Wearing scarred faces never was.
That the timings of hoping are chance
Matchsticks in desolation are trance
That the void in the star-scape is coming
And the mind of the skeptic is humming
In our ears, and that science defines
These disparate blurring lines
And all else is just blips
Random synaptic firings in a chaotic world
All but begging me to believe
You tell me, you tell me
But that doesn't change what I see.
No comments:
Post a Comment