Breakfast With An Escape

Prophecies And Philosophies Help Me Close My Eyes

Breakfast With An Escape

Here is a cup of tea for you. I have poured a bit of your mistakes in it. Drink it and fade. Then, when you wake up next morning, maybe you will understand the choices I made. All we are is but dying moths, floating in the sands of Infinity, with no ending, no start, no purpose, no aim and no soul. Drop by drop, this rain swelters over your sinful head. I have given up trying now, for there is no use in trying when there is no bird to catch. You are the answer to the question I once thought never existed. We all make mistakes. But not everyone has the ability to get up and dust off the dirt from the clothes that cling to our delicate, mortal frame. Planets revolve around a misty dream of the lost spheres. A thousand winds howl out your name, yet you sleep in the sweat of your fear. Manage without my strength. No one will give you the sword of courage to fight with. These days we reminiscence upon are nothing but moments of milestones, in a dark valley of Time. I will make you cards and hang them in your backyard. Look upon them and think of the beauty that once resided in us, before it is eaten up by the darkness that now engulfs us. Drums and drumbeat echo in your house. Or is it just the dying yet notorious sound of your heartbeat? May we survive the end of the world, to walk in the gardens that lie beyond our imaginations, in a place we don’t yet know of. Don’t look back now. Just walk on. They won’t catch you if you keep on going. Then,when the night falls with its warm and dark curtains wrapped around our shaking shoulders, we will sing in the orchestra performing by the starlight and the moon. Roses line some graves while thorns fill the king’s throne. I’ll make you coffee with more spices in it than sugar. Everybody is looking at you like they can see through you. Maybe they can. All I see in there is a sandcastle being washed over by the salty sea. Along with tea and coffee, I will make you a toast and spread butter and some love on it. Maybe your hatred will lick it all away, but the breadcrumbs will stick on your hands, fall on your clothes. Sounds will come from outside the door you have labelled as your secret library. After eons of Regret, you will finish your breakfast and go to the place you call your escape.