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(07121984 / Salisbury)

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Sometimes A Small Image Or A Turn Of Phrase Or Accent Will Jog Your Memory And Blur The Freethinking Thoughtfulness In Your Mind, To Match That Of The Object. The Object Then Stands Out, Like A Pregnant Woman’s Swollen Stomach, Full Of Pride And Impatience For The World Ahead. Takes its Two Hands To Grasp At Straws But Narrowly Misses Them All, To Form A Disapproving Mockery Of Today’s Youth. The Dead End Approaches As If From A Bad Dream, To Shake Your Sub-Conscious Into Thinking Your Dead, When Really You’re Wide Awake Living.
Only Your Shadow Can Fill The Void Of Emptiness, A Space That Will Swallow You Whole, In The Blackness Of Eternity. Boredom Seeps Into Your Veins Like Concrete, Sugar Water, Weighing Heavy On Your Heart And Turns Your Creativity To Stone Before Your Very Eyes, Dead To The World Around You, The World Dead To You. We Are Dead A Long Time, But Are We Living Now.

Submitted: Tuesday, July 09, 2013
Edited: Tuesday, July 09, 2013

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