A serpent coiled around those scales,
as she tipped to and fro, weighing
the past and the present,
weighing the values he held and those
that she desired to aquire to better herself.
It tipped to,
and she left him there,
trapped in his dead skin,
choking in a desert as he proceeded
to swallow his own tail.
Now it tips fro,
years later, and a voice in the pit
of his stomache growls:
So much hope thrown into this
what if its not all you think it could be?
Another lesson in great expectations.
Another lesson in the law of gravity.
If the pen is mightier than the sword, than
the e-mail is the literary manifestation of the A-Bomb,
and above those nuclear words blossomed
the mushroom cloud that ended it all
until now.
Death to rebirth again, with
the visions of burnt bridges and smoke
still haunting in this period of what
could be a regeneration.
Her eyes saw nothing but a blank stare all those years.
She cut the line and now tells you to throw her one.
Its just as if none of it ever really happened at all.
Digits hang above digits, might you bite the bullet and call?
Its almost as if I consider for a moment
history's a spiral and not a wheel.
Almost as if I believe the scales could
balance if given half a chance.
The venomn I threw at her
now turns in on myself as I
try not to wait and wonder.
The Scorpion awaiting the crow again,
its stinger deep, like a knife,
within its own back.
Its as if I'm drowning in a pool of my own
bullshit and high on desperation.
As if I died again and came back around again,
full circle and still dizzy from the last
pseudomasochistical joyride,
wounds itching for re-opening,
because its such a release
to bleed and breathe.
Just air and water.
as she tipped to and fro, weighing
the past and the present,
weighing the values he held and those
that she desired to aquire to better herself.
It tipped to,
and she left him there,
trapped in his dead skin,
choking in a desert as he proceeded
to swallow his own tail.
Now it tips fro,
years later, and a voice in the pit
of his stomache growls:
So much hope thrown into this
what if its not all you think it could be?
Another lesson in great expectations.
Another lesson in the law of gravity.
If the pen is mightier than the sword, than
the e-mail is the literary manifestation of the A-Bomb,
and above those nuclear words blossomed
the mushroom cloud that ended it all
until now.
Death to rebirth again, with
the visions of burnt bridges and smoke
still haunting in this period of what
could be a regeneration.
Her eyes saw nothing but a blank stare all those years.
She cut the line and now tells you to throw her one.
Its just as if none of it ever really happened at all.
Digits hang above digits, might you bite the bullet and call?
Its almost as if I consider for a moment
history's a spiral and not a wheel.
Almost as if I believe the scales could
balance if given half a chance.
The venomn I threw at her
now turns in on myself as I
try not to wait and wonder.
The Scorpion awaiting the crow again,
its stinger deep, like a knife,
within its own back.
Its as if I'm drowning in a pool of my own
bullshit and high on desperation.
As if I died again and came back around again,
full circle and still dizzy from the last
pseudomasochistical joyride,
wounds itching for re-opening,
because its such a release
to bleed and breathe.
Just air and water.
