deepundergroundpoetry.com
Some nights the stars are crying
Some nights the stars are crying..
They just give up their lives.
In seeking of whistling man that sorrow their existence for a wish,
regreting their own beings;
while the unity is rewritten from suffering to bliss.
Hope to total despair. Love to manipulative hate.
Endless to void scenarios and endless miles for you to run.
Maybe the meaning of all of what you considered to be truth is falling apart.
Perhaps the reasonable meaning is that there's no vital reason at all,
in any distant degree.
I'm seeking ghosts of parallel worlds and you switch modes.
In search of doom. Boemic grief ..
Blessed those to whom their reasons are known.
So what is this life of retorichlals questions that keep me from understanding the why..!
When did I,
ever touched that horizon of sparkling matter..
And what does it matter?
Rough is the ride on this swirl of knolwdge .
Deserted madness and what it means, nobody knows.
But the pure truth is the divinity in us all;
the vitality of a imaginery, ambrosial morning.
Enormous floods of positivity that meet
bottomless, overwhelming downs to a vaccuum of death in blossom.
They just give up their lives.
In seeking of whistling man that sorrow their existence for a wish,
regreting their own beings;
while the unity is rewritten from suffering to bliss.
Hope to total despair. Love to manipulative hate.
Endless to void scenarios and endless miles for you to run.
Maybe the meaning of all of what you considered to be truth is falling apart.
Perhaps the reasonable meaning is that there's no vital reason at all,
in any distant degree.
I'm seeking ghosts of parallel worlds and you switch modes.
In search of doom. Boemic grief ..
Blessed those to whom their reasons are known.
So what is this life of retorichlals questions that keep me from understanding the why..!
When did I,
ever touched that horizon of sparkling matter..
And what does it matter?
Rough is the ride on this swirl of knolwdge .
Deserted madness and what it means, nobody knows.
But the pure truth is the divinity in us all;
the vitality of a imaginery, ambrosial morning.
Enormous floods of positivity that meet
bottomless, overwhelming downs to a vaccuum of death in blossom.
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