There are always thoughts, enveloped, hidden in the crowd
exceeding their limits, their solitary space.
All that is around it is filled with work,
filled with exposed wires too empty to feel,
in places of no hope, no love or loss.
Tied together with one careless thread, a careless laughter,
this beautiful lie, this faded life
stuck in webs the bane of the weary,
sick of the fake, of industry, of stage,
full of yearning, of sweat, of pain,
destruction, sorrow, reflection,
always ready to take flight.
Cursed, broken, nothingness, watching others succeed,
a free open sky, scarred veins of strangers.
The masterpiece, uncertainty in the face of courage,
tainted, paralyzed by its future desperation,
a perfect orphanage from the dust of bones,
a little mirror of scatterred horizons
misery defining them.
