Mellifluous Murmurs

Vertigo

Funny 

How you seem to digress on a large bread basket

Without tearing apart the edges 

You can dare hold the snout of my gut between your sharp claws 

But you don't bother touching the precious stones over your head 

Your mind is a bloody cable car 

It's been everywhere 

But you can't allow it to be what you destine

But you can let others have a reach of what you detest

What you cram together in a compression is where you live 

Between those tiny little spaces and gaps 

That's where you'd find yourself; dug deep and embedded towards beads of curiosity

Your bed is covered with warm blankets that meet your expectations and keep your sinful body warm 

But the newborn child at the hospital 15 years ago was never given a blanket, but an article of cloth in a rather bag of curse...

A bag that readies you on the go 

A securing tape that sticks its residue towards your most sensitive patches of skin 

This makes no sense, but indifference wakes up the mind

It makes joy become a feeling of shame 

But it makes shame an element of sin 

My fingers dab; they dab firmly on the thorns and raindrops that dot my skin 

There's always a way to get into your heart 

Maybe not always 

But mildly, in sheer crafts of serenity 

There is never serenity 

The system blows upon a pleasure of rage and anger

That system is your vocal ability 

But your vocal ability is your soul

Spirit says it all 

But it depends 

It depends on the red of the leaves 

The red of the leaves that decay under the blank consumption of chaos and poison

Everything around you relates to your motion of gesture 

Everything around you wants to make you relive the moment to review and thank it later 

Everything around you shields your feeling of desperation, but would reopen your wounds

 and stab them all over again; repeatedly, deadly, merrily, and youthfully

Even your skin will grow out and wizen one day 

It will wizen and leave your blood coloring the texture of sandpaper on your raw flesh and crude blood 

You know you'd find the verge

And you'd spot a beautiful day 

Among all of the days that break and tear 

Upon all the tearing, you would count on the sores 

Between the little spaces, sparks shall burn down the past and words of yesterday 

Wisdom or stupidity

Vertigo is waiting for you at the midst volcano of dead end's vanilla twilight.