Saturday, July 23, 2011

Rolling Dices

Some dreams were throttled
It sure hit me in the head

It was pitch black around
Did someone take me to bed?

The parched lips searched for the taste of smoke
and the hands were numb

Ants made merry round the right foot
and teeth clattered in cold

So we light a cigarette, I and drinking soul

As we see the golden rings on head vanish in thin air
I question my own existence for a while

But there won't be angels and won't be reapers
A life to grow, a death to mourn

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