Emotionally orgasmic fantasies replaced by the relics through a blow
A gust of shade, shame and same guilt that preserved the perversion
Bottom lines never make any sense when the ones between are omitted
To skip to the end, the meaning thaws unto crumbles of a monument
That was to be the symbol of every motivation that captured the soul
The mind never puts itself at ease when the critic decisions are to be made
The pulses pulverize the mass produced thought traffic into a single channel
One that leads to the catastrophic trophy that the muse feeds on
Supports perish, the pain is anew, a thoughtless realization of the end
Dreams are dreams as long as they are whims that prolong into fantasies
Dreams cease to exist as soon as they become reality...
Man always forgets to see this truth, disallows self to truly enjoy the phantasms, seeks to slip the dimensionless heaven, stretching and condensing it at the same time, to a simplicity called truth, a perspective that s/he has limited control over...
Such a shame!