Half Story
Maybe the stories are only half true So the only way to have the truth you want Is to imagine it through
Maybe there is no way to clean the floor It is a permanent scratch on the door – (one you can’t ignore) – Surprise surprise – always an unfinished chore
Invented-to-sell vitality Imperfect reality Non sensible even in totality
No true story of love No caring dove Only illusion of someone above
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See AllHer eyes are still open Her head is hung low Blood trickles along her eyebrow While her eyes adjust to the blow. His arms rise again, Towards the speechless sky. Plunging ahead with the axe, He gives
At the altar of love, She offers herself. He drops an axe, Over her head. The drop came – Without a blink. Did he even Stop to think? A shock to the body A gap on the skin A gush of blood The slit bur
