in this place, the smiles are made of glass,, and everyone is more than happy to take a pass at you, whether they mean something by it or not,, when, at last, we wake up, will we be our best, or will we cease to be anything at all?
will we walk among the roses, or just get caught up in the thorns?
in this place, the ceiling seems to meet the floor. and, everyone always has one foot out the door, telling you to hang on, while they take the best of you, sifting over your heart, and then they’re gone. Taking the beauty and leaving you with the dust.
here, where the sun meets the horizon, seeming to gnaw away at the fringe of this forsaken town, could you find solace? could you see me as some to rely upon? would you join me?
as a metronome of entropy, as a living contradiction?
as my loving, brokenhearted, beautiful mess??
Copyright © Mason Lucas