Lonely corners
crumble & become tiny
there is no space to call my own
Overwhelming noises
magnify & become unbearable
there is no silence to call my home
Known sea of faces
rotate & manipulate
there is no place for love
This is the exact moment
when I attempt at stopping to think...
4 comments:
Sigh... an element of melancholy is very loud in this one...
Can we call it a post modernist condition?
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