At The Corner Of My Eye

A Strange Sickness

There's a city somewhere between worlds.
Hiding behind innuendos and romantic
Travelogue worthy metaphors.
It's got at least 2 faces, both with sneers,
Both created from ecstasies, and fears.

First the man with a cigarette unlit.
He navigates cosmopolitan streets,
Boulevards and shining buildings, paved in tears.
His melancholy is founded on the dreams,
You dreamt when you were too stoned to scream.
Or rather when you were too happy to sing.
He lights his cancer stick with the flames
From the lost lighters you left behind,
When you followed after dearest friends.
He will stay dry when it rains.

Second the woman, her full skirt torn short.
She's got a finger on her lip, telling you,
Pay attention to the wreckage and skew.
Those paan stained sidewalks unknown and unexplored,
They're the Kajal around her eyes.
And the pulled thread around her thighs.
Who's face you will never be able to see,
When you're too busy fucking her by sights by sighs.
She enjoys it, making you forget her name.
While her love plays a different game. 

They're sick don't your see ?!
Without one another, how can they be
Any but sick and distraught,
But they both went their ways to chase a panic.
A sickness addictive to the point of riot.
All broken and bent and tragic,
They'll fight for their right to be fuckups.
Because every day in that city is a choice,
Being captive or falling out of love.

This sickness keeps them alive,
Choices are addictive, important or random.
This sickness they have caught,
We like to call it freedom.