The story continues to remain, Each one of us repeating and mimicking each other, to reinforce the story of this day and age.
The story repeated by habit and decay, it gets louder and more real with each passing day. We call it freedom, we call it being slain... truth be told; the story remains the same.
Its the emancipation from repetition, Its the elucidation of beating heart. The sacred sunset never remains... never remains the same. The lacuna enslaves, the pit is where we rot, it is the story which we choose to live, every single living and breathing moment, loses its sheen; cries and moans like a bitch in heat.
The story is not clever, it is kind of lame, It is of security and stability in a chaotic space. But what do you and I know of anything, hell we choose more than anything not to know our own (self)
Become your god, Living your dream, The story magnifies all the evil within you and me. It is the malignant cancer, the virus of guilt, the knowhow of ignorance. the end of the body and flesh..
Depths within our imagination, the story; you must know, has no beginning and no end. It will be written as you wish. it will become your existence before your timely grave. Take it not seriously/morbidly, take it with soul-full grace...
The story becomes unique and then maybe fades, rejuvenated by another it becomes alive once again, immortal is the story of humanity, and dull and naive at best. The story of war and hunger, rape and torture, maimed and left for dead. The story why o why has not faded away from our inglorious past; I ask, like this sacred sunset....
The story repeated by habit and decay, it gets louder and more real with each passing day. We call it freedom, we call it being slain... truth be told; the story remains the same.
Its the emancipation from repetition, Its the elucidation of beating heart. The sacred sunset never remains... never remains the same. The lacuna enslaves, the pit is where we rot, it is the story which we choose to live, every single living and breathing moment, loses its sheen; cries and moans like a bitch in heat.
The story is not clever, it is kind of lame, It is of security and stability in a chaotic space. But what do you and I know of anything, hell we choose more than anything not to know our own (self)
Become your god, Living your dream, The story magnifies all the evil within you and me. It is the malignant cancer, the virus of guilt, the knowhow of ignorance. the end of the body and flesh..
Depths within our imagination, the story; you must know, has no beginning and no end. It will be written as you wish. it will become your existence before your timely grave. Take it not seriously/morbidly, take it with soul-full grace...
The story becomes unique and then maybe fades, rejuvenated by another it becomes alive once again, immortal is the story of humanity, and dull and naive at best. The story of war and hunger, rape and torture, maimed and left for dead. The story why o why has not faded away from our inglorious past; I ask, like this sacred sunset....
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