In the end and all along
the only thing we have is our skins
our bones, our blood
(and our brains)
Only thing we have is stories
about lives that have been lived or not
made up or dreamed
These stories we whisper at nights
to ourselves about ourselves
to the wind we whisper our secrets, our poems
and to the loved ones ears
we whisper the lies
we made up every night
the dreams we have about ourselves
about life
about death
about what’s been and what’s future
In the middle of all this
we don’t notice the life
or ourselves
Maybe we smoke a cigarette and someone
notices we are philosophers and poets
and someone
notices we are the fools killing ourselves
and our kind
not seeing the smoke
seeing the smoke
the play of the wind
which whispers stories, whispers
the lies we want to be
we want to be the wind
we want to become the beautiful lie
- Kirjaudu tai rekisteröidy kommentoidaksesi
