Inventing the wine.

For the words that maybe better left on paper. And the night which we gave the last chance to breathe under water.

Now typecasting in a role that is laughable at best. Counting the cars of a passing train like sheep right before this car wreck transports the dead into the living.

With all of the sharks still chasing the smell of blood. You keep smiling while choking on your own tears.

After times spent far away in spaces and places, this is still the same old game. The only difference now is the stench of desperation.

So the child sat by the fire, with dreams of today were only here for yesterday.


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