Sunday, November 3, 2013
The room is full, the rooms swallow us whole,
And we enter to favour the party of good,
Forcing our lunch down the man's throat,
That knowledge smacks you so strong.
The meaning of the counterintelligence,
Is the handsome pledge, a reality of being.
To see the diminutive and microscopic fear
Is far too beautiful, like the rooms we enter
To the frail heart;
It would be nice if the room was full,
Flowers crowd in, plants fight fortunately,
Letting the roses diminish and the petals to dry
And wilt into normal creatures.
The deal has been marked by the sudden arousal,
Next stories concern us, next stories surround us.