Life is a dream like no other.
When you breathe it isn't what it seems.
Every breathe you take makes you a storyteller.
Taking a life.
Giving a life for every step you take.
Slowly and slowly we sell you ideas.
Dreams as drugs.
Life like acts.
Were on a thread and the last play is about to begin.
All the saints will run slim.
We're fading away.
Dying like roses.
The saint of lovers is mute to say.
Poor old John is left without a mask.
The no tongue saint won't sing again..
And the saint of dreams lost his ways.
All that is left is a what we need.
A fucking vision.
And a bottle of absinthe.
The beginning is the end.
The end is just the beginning.
The end is not near.
So just to say all of us saints will speak again.
YOU ARE READING
The Meloncholy Diaries
PoetryThe Saints are misunderstood childhood friends who are seeing the world as what they want to be and through a sinners and a Christians point of view. They are all based on my creative saints. Still Ongoing though. List of the saints: Dreams Saint Ha...
