We are all ghosts roaming a fading universe.
Surrounded by destruction and eternal nostalgia.
We shouldn’t love.
Our tragedies and memories will never be revealed to others.
Trapped in a conscious unhallowed.
Together we may live,
but to the stars we travel alone.
Under the influence of false compassion.
Misanthropy forever tattooed upon our lips.
Time will continue to falter.
Hope will never reconcile with reality.
We will always dream–but never to the end.
For we may not like what we find.
Portraits and artifacts painted with the blood from our bleeding hearts.
Broken promises and broken paradises.
Cases of sleep deprivation.
Long lost embraces.
Cold lips devoid of warm kisses.
The annihilation of our potential.
Dour realities born of failure.
Do you still want to travel to the end?
We are running out of time.
Hands grasp cluttered pieces of sanity.
Heavy with tears.
Burdened with the guilt of every wrong turn.
Every dropped ice cream cone.
Every late dinner.
But don’t delay.
The dust trailing us is merely our bodies disintegrating into decay.
But still we keep moving.
For we love our tragedies laced with ecstasy.
– 1985 A.D.