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breathing sickness unto glass |
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drawing interpretations while intact |
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but windows shatter, |
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as circles last |
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white light shining through a prism |
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becoming nothing or chaos with |
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"what a smile", is what they really should say |
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such dumb blankness full of meaning |
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staring back, unflinching, smiling |
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sitting still, staring at the same painting |
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the feelings we have are ours alone, |
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and in the end they shouldn't be touched. |
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"what a smile", is what they really should say |
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so be cautious of things we frame in the dead of the night |
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an attempt to breach the disconnect in all the wrong ways, |
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instead we must create, |
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and take the place of god |
