Wednesday, June 20, 2007

And the ascetic ideal, the only way out,
of every circumstance is an empty promise.
More unfortunately than not, the lengths that these promises go,
are born in the eyes of the beholder.
I am thus far, left quite mistaken.
When the beacon of the flame of passion's
being burnt at its most immense,
it is also the most susceptible to an extinguish.
When the beacon becomes the microcosm of what we share,
then I see, this is only as far as we can come.



Are you going to tuck me into sweet surreal tonight?