Gord

2025-04-08 05:26 am

Easel, muse, what is fate?
My eyes no longer meet it,
My hands no longer make.

Like a glove conceals a ring,
Kind words, greater schemes.
I must run like we were kids,
I love drugs, love the feelings,
I love the girl.

Sober realism...

Stare into the distance,
Eventually you see the same,
Tomorrow, is a little late