Give Me the Truth
She lit the match to light her cigarette,
A spark danced into her heart.
The mauve painted nails clung to her chest,
Yet the flicker had already become a memory.
An egoist shall never succumb to reality,
The past, invented or true, lures them away.
The yearning is not one of happiness,
Rather an absinthe scented illusion.
These thoughts always press the brakes,
Of a reasonable and cheerful mind,
To ignite self-pity and desire for liquor.
A hungry demon setting its teeth into
A glass of recollections.
Obscuring all that could create a calm fog,
Flames now rejoice in tangerine tones,
Within a pitiful being.
Mad through choice, not obligation,
To escape from what they call regret.
Copyright © Night Prophet | Year Posted 2014
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