Senses' curtain is thin
You can pretend nothing's wrong
Wake and ignore
The clipping border of your mirror
The mid-day deja-vù
Don't you ever think how diaphanous
Is the time we're ruminating?
You lose track of the days
In consuming your nails
Scratching away the plaster
Carving preposterous charades
Once you realize you possess no more evidence
Will your questions truly be worth?
It's a path that leads to the red fields of none
And you will find that blooms and breeds
Do nothing but spinning round
Like the worlds anchored to our feet

INVIA LE CORREZIONI