The Steam

smoke

Incense. Elicited through emotion, these ghosts play tricks on the mind. They move in and out with ease. Steady like the ebb and flow of a tide. Passing always like the clouds above our heads. Pale dots that move like ink across our eyes. They disguise the orderless truth of wasted days. Trees creep down and whisper sweet nothings into your ear. They peer inside your head and see themselves on fire. The cold sting of a switch blade. Neon lights illuminating careless words on a New York sidewalk. The steam consumes. It wraps you in dreams and never lets go. It devours meaning. It suffocates like a noose. 

Slow hands at the foot of a clock tower. Drifting figures that don’t belong. They exist neither here nor there. Hundreds of years in a matter of minutes. Bodies down a well. Lullabies on your pillow as sleep falters in the early hours. Can’t escape those faded days. Can’t forget those missed opportunities. Place flowers on a coffin. Gaze at the moon as it sways far above the horizon. You could’ve been anything. You could’ve been a lover but you ended up a statue. The oceans of the world inside your thoughts. The storms that rage eternal behind your eyes. The rings of sorrow that hypnotise all. 

Lucid believers. Cast aside by those with no wonder. They see no creation, only the rights and wrongs of design. Boundaries. Black and white. A system based on machines. They paint inside the lines. They deceive themselves at will. They say it’s how it is, but they’ll never know how it really is. A celluloid honeymoon is what they crave. A way of living without thinking is all they want. Jump into the river. Let the cold waters cradle you like a womb. Get back to a place outside of time. Be what you want. See no shapes. Feel no harm. A seed of all great things. A light that never goes out.

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