Dream Ca seelled: Love

No no
Dream called Love


How can we call this life as being it all—cut up and out of shape— not colourful, quirky like an abstract expressionist painting— more dreary as dusk Sundays can be—when it comes through the minimal light somehow frightening— no taming of hollow lives lost in the still night.

So we pursue a dream called love, made of stone and rocky edges—slip up and you might fall -–her breath so cold like frosty snow and ice–climbing higher up for a view of—what? Nothing.
Contumacious, clashing— they steal your soul, then you finding a piece of paper scrawled on by a madman saying, 'Go back. This is no time for wasted lies. No time to waste'.
How can we call this life a living hell when you feel free forever in love?
But no one told you about holes in the story, no proper nouns, just scavenger hunts.
For now— never heard of cutting cranial in the morning, waking kettle on boiling- – the top popping open—we rise to normal life.
Rancid roll over and wretched—wrecking ball rolling on this rock or is it possible for you to look at me differently?  
I'm mortal— sometime immoral, crude, retreat to the bedroom. I don't know what my head is supposed to be doing.
I don't think of myself as a creature of light.

Adumbration, atramentous, aphotic the dreary dark day again taking any great ideas away.
So what happened to the soliloquy– me by obscurity, doomsday, dopamine drumming from the tribe called Ltyrosine?
Amygdala—just like that she's out of the window.