We live in poems and die.
We dance sometimes and
Sometimes cry.
There are drums and guitars
In the corner. Knives and
Nooses on the other.
Divine worship and the
Invocation of Satan that
Goes hand in hand..
We're no one's favorite.
Hate can live long enough
Here. Love can readily die.
Romanticism is our kidnaper
And we got Stockholm
Syndrome diagnosed.
Poetry is a spectrum to
Choke on in search of
Meaning of life.
The wormholes placed in
Our words to enter one world
And exit through the other..
The full exploration of
The universe on our platter
May seem sweet.
But it's Salty and Sour.
And toxic at times.
Why so you may ask.
And our reply would
Always be a 'Why Not?'