How fickle are the heavy minded,
trudging to whatever satiates their lies,
whatever makes them as they were
the guise of the future is hidden behind the proletariat love of life,
the insignificance that lies in the heart of my soul is light.
The embrace of the cradle of love is heavy,
it digs deep as the fickleness of my mind
it swiftly procures the screams of my mother
as I leave her house, under the impressions of a lust for life,
the closeted emotions that surface as tears escape the sights of my neighbours are forgotten.
Incredulity struck me, the gravity of symphonies
carrying with it the terrible lightness of being,
crackling the fire of love and distaste, burnt cigarettes and hands
that were choking hazards to their own chemical composition,
unsettled in its atmosphere, sits the loneliness of life, the terrible life of being.