Lying here in the fake arms that held me these whispers reminding me that my ambitions will never se light. Here in these cold arms where I rubbed them thinking I was god enough to give them life. A fools god I am drink off the nectar of that false ambrosia I bit into roses thinking it was good for the heart.
Thinking I was good from start I weaved magical strings of self-delusions, mental-illusions that brought out the pain of this physical conclusion. False ambrosia, springing life from the stories they told you, of meek gods and bleak pods we call the human soul that all reach for their counterparts. Living with dirty hearts and clean minds our empty lives only seems to beam lies into the eyes of our guilty conscious.
From false ambrosia to the lost arms that hold us, tell me did we really become gods or something more hopeless?
No comments:
Post a Comment