Moth Of Corrosion

Dreams cascade like stolen petals, plucked to smell the morning and dropped to the terrain to fade. Close the gate and chase the number one to town, while forgetting the wilting rain drops, just to check in and joing the A.I's in the lifts going up and down. "La, la, la, la", we're speaking to ourselves again, stretching so far to ruin the synthetic code.

Past pretences are covered in moss and abandoned like oil paintings facing the empty walls. Concentrate on the tablet white chalk outlines. I should be stronger and round up these shoulders before you give up on the only points of views that keeps us alive.

The phone book has corroded from using it to stand on to kiss and make up to the etches of our youth.

Written by Chris Yeoman