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Friday, July 01, 2005


The tip scratched upon the parchment.
A dream setting of a playwright.

Her fingers danced gracefully over the keys.


Again the man writes, a midsummer night's wind blows.


Like an undying lover it plays with her hair.


She is beautiful.. Like a bloom of a rose.
Her cheeks are flushed, she smiles and closes her eyes.

Eyes of an endless railway of lies. Mesmerizing only to the man.


The man pauses, his pen quivers.
Forcefully he etches the words in her memory.


The music of the piano overwhelms his senses.
A life of it's own, it cuts and bleeds.


A distant cry....
He pauses, unable to carry on.

He leaves the room, an endless rain pours.
Memories of her, none other than his own past.
His lies.

He wipes at his eyes, through the rain he sees them. Vague Silhouettes, familiar and comforting however.
He smiles and weeps, holding them close.

A silent whisper.. He hears them
Dry your tears, my friend. Dry your tears...

His friends?









My friends....

I Am King Of The World



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