It’s a fading conundrum, a fate of disbelief and of lack of continuity. It is made of disappointment and disaster, a specialized rotten faith of invisible sights, bigger spectrums of lost shades.
Small, dull, insignificant personas, insecure. I wish I was lighter and everything like to be them.
So many tricks to be equal, desires to stumble on myself, reborn. If only I was human. Smelling nice and scenting nothing in fear.
Believing in no thing to say, about them or us…
Arise from the track, still sparkling and chirping from the last locomotive in a melancholy of corrosion and lust made of sad ambitions.
This is a measure of demise, and empathy… I am able to cope it in such a manner I keep myself understandably absent.
Still empty of nothing but the fullness of myself.