:minimalist

Monday, February 09, 2004

 

And the frame in the sun.

A clean kill is a dead kill. Bitter, bitter. In a victory of spirit, the crying ask, but there is no parade. And the knives are showered with love. The ends are frosted with white sugar. Bitter, bitter. There are no words but those we speak, no knowledge but what we possess.

You, you, you. The day of desolation comes, while the cup is filled to emptiness. And this revelation will never end. What about salt that never surfaces? I don't need you.

I don't need you. you. you. you. need. you.

But some songs are meant to be sung. Some words can never be spoken. Every day he drinks from this cup. The end is sighted, but the journey is still long.

and the crying, and the crying

goes

on

bananna 11:17 PM  |