Behind the Keys of Lucid Dreams.
Flicking through the archives of a distant imagery, I see a black hole of a broken bulb; a replica of a broken soul. Trying to mould the shaded lady that's steadily fading under the blanket of the night's sky.
The stars dimmers heavily on her face. A face imprinted in the portfolio of memories. Kinda like clicking on previous poetic posts I guess...
Journey further into the depths of a careless journalist, who spends his days studying an unforeseen event that disrupts the normal course of any complicated transitional process reached within ourselves, to find what we all mistakenly call "love". But somewhere in the soul of Tokyo, he may find his Paris heart (also commonly referred to as the city of love) in somebody else, he can only wish to french kiss...
I've petal picked this moment, but love chose the wrong daisy. She loves me, maybe. Or maybe she loves me not, daily...
I don't condone this limerence, but... I also don't have a choice.
Journey further into the depths of a careless journalist, who spends his days studying an unforeseen event that disrupts the normal course of any complicated transitional process reached within ourselves, to find what we all mistakenly call "love". But somewhere in the soul of Tokyo, he may find his Paris heart (also commonly referred to as the city of love) in somebody else, he can only wish to french kiss...
I've petal picked this moment, but love chose the wrong daisy. She loves me, maybe. Or maybe she loves me not, daily...
I don't condone this limerence, but... I also don't have a choice.
As if I've been reinstated with infactuation.
Her interests are unerringly akin to mine.
Our affinitive force enters a chemical combination of the allure and concupiscence which artistically forms (and maintains) a structural bond that cannot be separated, but can only organically grow and reproduce from the roots/origins of our love.
- CH
- CH
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