i have but fleeting remembrance of the horrors
they are not explosive, climatic, eruptive or disruptive
they do not, rest assured, make good stories
it's the simple smokestack against the full moon night
before you dive through a slide made of jagged metal cans
it's the way the sun peeks over the hills
rendering the world oddly mundane
the post apocalyptic smoke and fog swathed city
isn't political, mystical or physical
it's just a visual facade hiding feeling behind it
i beg you not trust too greatly the false promise
that lurks in the majesty of a beautiful dream
a self serving reinforcement, a sniff of romance
a promise of love you heavily doubt
gains life when bolstered with this nicotine
like sailors keeping a wary ear out for sirens
you'll write your own death sentence
submerging yourself in what your dreams say
while never considering what they don't
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