There is a ghost, of sorts, that walks behind me
Breathing my air
One that waits on me with beckon knee
Even one that waivers; and can't be denounced by a prayer
It's to those who doubt
What we, intellects, define as an illness
Masses ignorantly blithe in flaut
So cut your own cacophony off by your shrillness
Merely just tell me your thoughts
Will I hide or will I shout?
....Regardless of its cost;
Lets just congeal, and bail out!
No comments:
Post a Comment