C’est la Vie

Pour quoi?
For the cherry blossoms that grow afar.
Bottom of the jar, dirt
flirting with Grim.
A mutt that knows no dreams,
chasing lightning, every night
since New Year’s eve.

Pissing on trees, counting to three.
Surrounded by blossoms, yet he can’t see.
Depression repressed under a silo
defending the love of a sunken ship.
Salemene’s epiphany,
drunk in dust,
cemented in the past,
reliving again and again,
through dusk and dawn’s symphony.

Trapped in an abysmal grave
of never-ending intricacies.
Like the sun departed from the light of the moon.
Daunting images of a lonely cocoon,
hasting to be winged,
yet no where to be seen.
C’est la Vie, mi amor.

c’est la vie.


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