Midnight Hours

Handed to the flames of the cold night, when I speak out of place. Tears of regret fill me like spells of rain, and I'm feeling like the skeleton of Dadaism, having caught a glimpse of the bigger picture and escaped the clutch of some mad disease. The sigh of the heart trickles through my jukebox, when art is persistently rushed and I have no time to gather my thoughts, no room to move, no room to think, so I walk to rivers to clear my mind, running from the loss of control. Crystal waters flow like Vivaldi's Four Seasons, taurine down the throat. Silvery-gray when exposed to the air. The electric shaver glides over my skin just like a lawn mower over the lush greens, and I feel as smooth as freshly squeezed oranges. When I'm done I'm reduced to a nothing substance, to a powdery hammock, a relic of the past, beautifully dead. Wanting your rose gold kisses, angel music of the night.  

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