Filigreed fucks with papers all Johnny-on-high,
diagnose another cluck with illness
so long adrift it must be because they don’t try.
Embrace that soft noise
make it part of your heart,
believe you’re insane though it tears you apart.
Now wrap up all tight into desperation and love,
never feel certain and it fits like a glove.
It’s not that it’s wrong,
hell it’s probably right,
but we dance to our own tunes,
even into the shadows,
coming out of the night.
To Ink - a blog from Melting Neurons 