Your words are as hollow as the drum beating over these hills. You smirk, at my laughs, at your poetic designs. Controlling these words like a puppet on strings. They tangle with each motion, yet flow without flaws.
Like your lies.
The light bulb sways in an empty room, burning an impression on my cheek, as I hold it close, looking for warmth. The warmth that was promised, by all that was. The warmth that would cure, the disease of us. The doors wide open, letting in the darkness, covering the light, with its overwhelming needing. Eating away at the flesh of the light, so slowly.
Water has it's steady thumping, against the hard wood floor. Incessant, and clear, with out missing a beat.
Like your wishes.
But they never come true. The wishes of the young get buried with the lilacs. And the dreams of the old whither with them in their funeral bed. But your wishes seem to always come through. With a glamorous hatred, you've never faultered. You're as lucky as a rabbit's tail, I wonder if you're the reason of world hunger.
When the sun sets it glows a gleaming purple on the grasses. So majestic the site, it puts a smile on her face.
Like your cunning.
You weave together a door mat of lies, of tricks, of hate, of lust. And it reads, "Welcome home. Broken hearted, this is where you spend the rest of your days." The welcome mat of an asylum, devoted to those who converted to you.
The stars burn like fire. They were so nice to look at until they got closer. And scorched our skin, and burned our insides.
Like your lies.